If they have since out-writ all other men,
’Tis with the drops which fell from Shakespeare’s pen.
The storm which vanish’d on the neighb’ring shore,
Was taught by Shakespeare’s Tempest first to roar.
That innocence and beauty which did smile
In Fletcher, grew on this Enchanted Isle.
But Shakespeare’s magick could not copy’d be,
Within that circle none durst walk but he.
I must confess ’twas bold, nor would you now
That liberty to vulgar wits allow,