However grave divines may say, That spirits fled from mortal clay Despise all human praise; 'Tis plain the love of honest fame Still glows within th' aetherial frame: This work a proof displays.
For Shakespeare dead two hundred years, Still for his reputation fears, In a corrupted age; From Heav'n in female form descends, With his own fire explains, commends, And blazons his own page.
