The rich creation of his pen:
Preferr’d the prayer—the marble god
Methinks I see, assenting, nod,
And, pointing to his laurell’d brow,
Cry—“Half this wreath to you I owe:
Lost to the stage, and lost to fame;
Murder’d my scenes, scarce known my name;
Sunk in oblivion and disgrace
Among the common scribbling race,
Unnotic’d long thy Shakespeare lay,