“------Of ditties highly penned,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer’s bower,
With ravishing division to her lute.”

It is the only blank verse in the language, except Milton’s, that for itself is readable.  It is not stately and uniformly swelling like his, but varied and broken by the inequalities of the ground it has to pass over in its uncertain course,

      “And so by many winding nooks it strays,
      With willing sport to the wild ocean.”

It remains to speak of the faults of Shakspeare.  They are not so many or so great as they have been represented; what there are, are chiefly owing to the following causes:—­The universality of his genius was, perhaps, a disadvantage to his single works; the variety of his resources, sometimes diverting him from applying them to the most effectual purposes.  He might be said to combine the powers of AEschylus and Aristophanes, of Dante and Rabelais, in his own mind.  If he had been only half what he was, he would perhaps have appeared greater.  The natural ease and indifference of his temper made him sometimes less scrupulous than he might have been.  He is relaxed and careless in critical places; he is in earnest throughout only in Timon, Macbeth, and Lear.  Again, he had no models of acknowledged excellence constantly in view to stimulate his efforts, and by all that appears, no love of fame.  He wrote for the “great vulgar and the small,” in his time, not for posterity.  If Queen Elizabeth and the maids of honour laughed heartily at his worst jokes, and the catcalls in the gallery were silent at his best passages, he went home satisfied, and slept the next night well.  He did not trouble himself about Voltaire’s criticisms.  He was willing to take advantage of the ignorance of the age in many things; and if his plays pleased others, not to quarrel with them himself.  His very facility of production would make him set less value on his own excellences, and not care to distinguish nicely between what he did well or ill.  His blunders in chronology and geography do not amount to above half a dozen, and they are offences against chronology and geography, not against poetry.  As to the unities, he was right in setting them at defiance.  He was fonder of puns than became so great a man.  His barbarisms were those of his age.  His genius was his own.  He had no objection to float down with the stream of common taste and opinion:  he rose above it by his own buoyancy, and an impulse which he could not keep under, in spite of himself or others, and “his delights did shew most dolphin-like.”

He had an equal genius for comedy and tragedy; and his tragedies are better than his comedies, because tragedy is better than comedy.  His female characters, which have been found fault with as insipid, are the finest in the world.  Lastly, Shakspeare was the least of a coxcomb of any one that ever lived, and much of a gentleman.