Of local humour; or from plays purloin
Each quaint stale scrap which every subject hits,
Till fools almost imagine, they are wits.
Hear them on Shakespeare! there they foam, they rage!
Yet taste not half the beauties of his page,
Nor see that art, as well as nature strove,
To place him foremost in th’ Aonian grove.
For there, there only, where the sisters join,
His genius triumphs, and the work’s divine.
Or would ye sift more near these sons of fire,