Nor are great thoughts more adorned by Verse; than Verse unbeautified by mean ones.  So that Verse seems not only unfit in the best use of it, but much more in the worst, when “a servant is called,” or “a door bid to be shut” in Rhyme [p. 569].  Verses, I mean good ones, do, in their height of Phancy, declare the labour that brought them forth! like Majesty that grows with care:  and Nature, that made the Poet capable, seems to retire, and leave its offers to be made perfect by pains and judgement.

Against this, I can raise no argument, but my Lord of Orrery’s writings.  In whose Verse, the greatness of the Majesty seems unsullied with the cares, and his inimitable Phancy descends to us in such easy expressions, that they seem as if neither had ever been added to the other:  but both together flowing from a height; like birds got so high that use no labouring wings, but only, with an easy care, preserve a steadiness in motion.  But this particular happiness, among those multitudes which that excellent Person is owner of, does not convince my reason, but employ my wonder.  Yet, I am glad such Verse has been written for our Stage; since it has so happily exceeded those whom we seemed to imitate.

But while I give these arguments against Verse, I may seem faulty, that I have not only writ ill ones, but writ any.  But since it was the fashion; I was resolved, as in all indifferent things, not to appear singular:  the danger of the vanity being greater than the error.  And therefore, I followed it as a fashion; though very far off.

For the Italian plays; I have seen some of them, which have been given me as the best:  but they are so inconsiderable that the particulars of them are not at all worthy to entertain the Reader.  But, as much as they are short of others, in this; they exceed in their other performances on the Stage.  I mean their Operas:  which, consisting of Music and Painting; there’s none but will believe it as much harder to equal them in that way, than ’tis to excel them in the other.

The Spanish Plays pretend to more; but, indeed, are not much:  being nothing but so many novels put into Acts and scenes, without the least attempt or design of making the Reader more concerned than a well-told tale might do.  Whereas, a Poet that endeavours not to heighten the accidents which Fortune seems to scatter in a well-knit Design, had better have told his tale by a fireside, than presented it on a Stage.

For these times, wherein we write.  I admire to hear the Poets so often cry out upon, and wittily (as they believe) threaten their judges; since the effects of their mercy has so much exceeded their justice, that others with me, cannot but remember how many favourable audiences, some of our ill plays have had:  and, when I consider how severe the former Age has been to some of the best of Mr. Johnson’s never to be equalled Comedies; I cannot but wonder why any Poet should speak of former Times, but rather acknowledge that the want of abilities in this Age are largely supplied with the mercies of it.