When Shakespeare’s plan is understood, most of the criticisms of Rymer and Voltaire vanish away.  The play of Hamlet is opened, without impropriety, by two centinels; Iago bellows at Brabantio’s window, without injury to the scheme of the play, though in terms which a modern audience would not easily endure; the character of Polonius is seasonable and useful; and the Gravediggers themselves may be heard with applause.

Shakespeare engaged in dramatick poetry with the world open before him; the rules of the ancients were yet known to few; the publick judgment was unformed; he had no example of such fame as might force him upon imitation, nor criticks of such authority as might restrain his extravagance:  he, therefore, indulged his natural disposition, and his disposition, as Rymer has remarked, led him to comedy.  In tragedy he often writes, with great appearance of toil and study, what is written at last with little felicity; but, in his comick scenes, he seems to produce, without labour, what no labour can improve.  In tragedy he is always struggling after some occasion to be comick; but in comedy he seems to repose, or to luxuriate, as in a mode of thinking congenial to his nature.  In his tragick scenes there is always something wanting, but his comedy often surpasses expectation or desire.  His comedy pleases by the thoughts and the language, and his tragedy, for the greater part, by incident and action.  His tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy to be instinct[8].

The force of his comick scenes has suffered little diminution from the changes made by a century and a half, in manners or in words.  As his personages act upon principles arising from genuine passion, very little modified by particular forms, their pleasures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all places; they are natural, and, therefore, durable; the adventitious peculiarities of personal habits are only superficial dies, bright and pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tinct, without any remains of former lustre; but the discriminations of true passion are the colours of nature; they pervade the whole mass, and can only perish with the body that exhibits them.  The accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved by the chance that combined them; but the uniform simplicity of primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay.  The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another, but the rock always continues in its place.  The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabricks of other poets, passes, without injury, by the adamant of Shakespeare[9].