other
language. Suppose you have seen already the fortunate usurper passing
through the crowd, and followed by the shouts and acclamations of the
people; and now behold King Richard entering upon the scene: consider
the wretchedness of his condition, and his carriage in it; and refrain
from pity, if you can:

As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard: no man cry'd, God save him:
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home,
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head,
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
(The badges of his grief and patience)
That had not God (for some strong purpose) steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

To speak justly of this whole matter: it is neither height of thought
that is discommended, nor pathetic vehemence, nor any nobleness of
expression in its proper place; but it is a false measure of all
these, something which is like them, and is not them: it is the
Bristol-stone, which appears like a diamond; it is an extravagant
thought, instead of a sublime one; it is roaring madness, instead of
vehemence; and a sound of words, instead of sense. If Shakespeare were
stripped of all the bombasts in his passions, and dressed in the most
vulgar words, we should find the beauties of his thoughts remaining;
if his embroideries were burnt down, there would still be silver at
the bottom of the melting-pot: but I fear (at least let me fear it for
myself) that we, who ape his sounding words, have nothing of his
thought, but are all outside; there is not so much as a dwarf within
our giant's clothes. Therefore, let not Shakespeare suffer for our
sakes; it is our fault, who succeed him in an age which is more
refined, if we imitate him so ill, that we copy his failings only, and
make a virtue of that in our writings, which in his was an
imperfection.

For what remains, the excellency of that poet was, as I have said, in
the more manly passions; Fletcher's in the softer: Shakespeare writ
better betwixt man and man; Fletcher, betwixt man and woman:
consequently, the one described friendship better; the other love: yet
Shakespeare taught Fletcher to write love: and Juliet and Desdemona
are ori