’Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise;
On nature’s surer aid Britannia calls,
None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls;
Then with a sigh returns our audience home,
From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome.
. . . . . .
And yet in Shakespeare something still I find,
That makes me less esteem all humankind;
He made one nature and another found,
Both in his page with master-strokes abound;