‘Every word in him is a picture. Pray put me the following lines into the tongue of our modern Dramatics:
“But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass:
I, that am rudely stampt, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph:
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up”—
and what follows. To me they appear untranslatable; and if this be the case our language is greatly degenerated.’