I.

Stop: for your tread is on a Poet’s dust! ’Tis Shakespeare, mangled, feels the dreadful blow! The bubble of that overrated fame has _bust_! No critics sing the praises of the slow:―― None; presumptuous player! why don’t you go Back to the “Bells” or “Diddler”? Can’t you see The Moor is not your form? ask Mrs. Crowe, And all true friends; they will agree That in this _role_ you’re more than ever up a tree.