Take another case;
Fit up the cabin yet another way. 
What say you to the poets? shall we write
Hamlet, Othello—­make the world our own,
Without a risk to run of either sort? 
I can’t!—­to put the strongest reason first. 490
“But try,” you urge, “the trying shall suffice;
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: 
Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!”
Spare my self-knowledge—­there’s no fooling me! 
If I prefer remaining my poor self,
I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. 
If I’m a Shakespeare, let the well alone;
Why should I try to be what now I am? 
If I’m no Shakespeare, as too probable—­
His power and consciousness and self-delight 500
And all we want in common, shall I find—­
Trying forever? while on points of taste
Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I
Are dowered alike—­I’ll ask you, I or he,
Which in our two lives realizes most? 
Much, he imagined—­somewhat, I possess. 
He had the imagination; stick to that! 
Let him say, “In the face of my soul’s works
Your world is worthless and I touch it not
Lest I should wrong them”—­I’ll withdraw my plea. 510
But does he say so? look upon his life! 
Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. 
He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces
To build the trimmest house in Stratford town;
Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things,
Giulio Romano’s pictures, Dowland’s lute;
Enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too,
And none more, had he seen its entry once,
Than “Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal.” 
Why then should I who play that personage, 520
The very Pandulph Shakespeare’s fancy made,
Be told that had the poet chanced to start
From where I stand now (some degree like mine
Being just the goal he ran his race to reach)
He would have run the whole race back, forsooth,
And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays? 
Ah, the earth’s best can be but the earth’s best! 
Did Shakespeare live, he could but sit at home
And get himself in dreams the Vatican,
Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, 530
And English books, none equal to his own,
Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). 
—­Terni’s fall, Naples’ bay and Gothard’s top—­
Eh, friend?  I could not fancy one of these;
But, as I pour this claret, there they are: 
I’ve gained them—­crossed St. Gothard last July
With ten mules to the carriage and a bed
Slung inside; is my hap the worse for that? 
We want the same things, Shakespeare and myself,
And what I want, I have:  he, gifted more, 540
Could fancy he too had them when he liked,
But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed,
He would not have them ...also in my sense. 
We play one game; I send the ball aloft
No less adroitly that of fifty strokes
Scarce five go o’er the wall so wide and high