The following is from Dryden’s _Defence of the Epilogue_:—Let any man who understands English read diligently the works of Shakespeare and Fletcher, and I dare undertake that he will find in every page either some solecism of speech, or some notorious flaw in sense; and yet these men are reverenced, when we are not forgiven. That their wit is great, and many times their expressions noble, envy itself cannot deny. ——_Neque ego illis detrahere ausim Hærentem capiti multa cum laude coronam._ But the times were ignorant in which they lived. Poetry was then, if not in its infancy among us, at least not arrived to its vigour and maturity. Witness the lameness of their plots; many of which, especially those which they writ first (for even that age refined itself in some measure), were made up of some ridiculous incoherent story, which in one play many times took up the business of an age. I suppose I need not name “Pericles, Prince of Tyre,” nor the historical plays of Shakespeare; besides many of the rest, as the “Winter’s Tale,” “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” “Measure for Measure,” which were either grounded on impossibilities, or at least so meanly written that the comedy neither caused your mirth, nor the serious part your concernment. ANONYMOUS, 1672 In country beauties, as we often see Something that takes in their simplicity; Yet while they charm, they know not they are fair, 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, But to persuade is to be eloquent; So in this Cæsar which this day you see, Tully ne’er spoke as he makes Anthony. Those then that tax his learning are to blame, He knew the thing, but did not know the name: Great Jonson did that ignorance adore, And though he envied much, admir’d him more. The faultless Jonson equally writ well: Shakespeare made faults; but then did more excell. One close at guard like some old fencer lay, T’other more open, but he show’d more play. In imitation Jonson’s wit was shown, Heaven made his men but Shakespeare made his own. Wise Jonson’s talent in observing lay, But other’s follies still made up his play. He drew the like in each elaborate line, But Shakespeare, like a master, did design. Jonson with skill dissected human kind, And show’d their faults that they their faults might find. But then, as all anatomists must do, He to the meanest of mankind did go,