Thou son of Shakespeare, and thou bravest wit, That sav'st the glory of this sinking age, Since much we owe, 'tis rightly fit, Thy praises should our blunter pens engage: But yet this age shall be thy monument, This age, that by thy piercing eye is kept In due observance, and true element Of Virtue, which in fault had haply slept: But that thy keen, and asking spirit show'd This World, thy England, what her sphere contain'd, And golden words on true desert bestow'd. And evil, where her peerless orb was stain'd: Thou with delight hast taught Antiquity In service of the breathing World to fly!
