And take without their spreading of the snare;
Such artless beauty lies in Shakespeare’s wit,
’Twas well in spite of him what ere he writ.
His excellencies came and were not sought,
His words like casual atoms made a thought:
Drew up themselves in rank and file, and writ,
He wond’ring how the Devil it were such wit.
Thus like the drunken tinker, in his play,
He grew a prince, and never knew which way.
He did not know what trope or figure meant,