Dukes no more ducal, even on the bill,
Milk-livered murd’rers too ill-fed to kill;
Mild-looking demons that a babe might daunt,
Witches and ghosts most naturally gaunt;
Lovers made pale by keener pangs than love’s,
Unspangled princesses with greasy gloves;
Wits very witless—grave comedians mute,
And silent sons of violin and flute.
After these down-look’d leaders of the show,
Who creep like Trajan’s Dacians, wan and slow,