If on your harrow’d souls impress’d you feel
The stamp of nature’s uncontested seal;—
Demand no other proof, nor idly pore
O’er mouldy manuscripts of ancient lore,
To see if every tawny line display
The genuine ink of fam’d Eliza’s day:
Nor strive with curious industry to know
How poets spelt two centuries ago.
But if these proofs should fail; if in the strain
You seek the drama’s awful sire in vain,