est are with them in
Paradise. At first sight of Dorinda he would have bolted.

Dryden says, that "he knew not to distinguish the blown puffy style from
true sublimity." He would then have done so, and no mistake. "The fury
of his fancy often transported him beyond the bounds of judgment, either
in coining of new words and phrases, or racking words which were in use,
into the violence of catachresis." His ears would have been jarred by
Prospero's "polite conversation," so unlike what he, who had not "kept
the best society," was confined to "in a barbarous age." Yet Dryden
confessed that he "understood the nature of the passions," and "made his
characters distinct;" so that "his failings were not so much in the
passions themselves, as in his manner of expression." Unfortunately, his
vocabulary was neither choice nor extensive, and he "often obscured his
meaning by his words, and sometimes made it unintelligible."

"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 a roaring
madness instead of vehemence; a sound of words instead of sense. If
Shakspeare 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 dwarf within our giant's clothes. Therefore, let not
Shakspeare suffer for our sakes; it is our fault, who succeed him
in an age that 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. Shakspeare
writ better betwixt man and man; Fletcher betwixt man and woman:
consequently the one described friendship better--the other love.
Yet Sh