In tones more sweet than Fletcher’s tender lays.
Now with strong arrows steeped in caustic wit,
Like Jonson, stabs the follies of the times,
Deep in the “heart’s core:” He’s the bard I seek,
He always joy’d in me, and I in him.
He will revive the glory of the stage.
Then all the puny bards of modern days,
Scar’d at his looks, shall fly; as birds of night,
Shun the full blaze of heaven’s refulgent orb.