The Scum That Rises Upmost,

A Thing Well Said Will Be Wit In All Languages.

But Shakespeare's Magic Could Not Copied Be; Within That Circle None Durst Walk But He.

None, None Descends Into Himself, To Find The Secret Imperfections Of His Mind: But Every One Is Eagle-ey'd To See Another's Faults, And His Deformity.

The Propriety Of Thoughts And Words, Which Are The Hidden Beauties Of A Play, Are But Confusedly Judged In The Vehemence Of Action.

An Hour Will Come, With Pleasure To Relate Your Sorrows Past, As Benefits Of Fate.