ABSTRACT
We will no more admire Euripides, Nor praise the tragic strains of Sophocles; For why? Thou in this tragedy has framed All real worth that can in them be named. How lively are thy persons fitted, and How pretty are thy lines! Thy verses stand Like unto precious jewels set in gold And grace thy fluent prose. I once was told By one well skilled in Arts he thought thy play Was only worthy fame to bear away From all before it. Brachiano's illMurdering his Duchess hath by thy rare skill Made him renowned, Flamineo such anotherThe Devil's darling, murderer of his brother. His part — most strange! — given him to act by thee Doth gain him credit and not calumny. Vittorio Corombona, that famed whore, Desperate Lodovico weltering in his gore, Subtle Francisco — all of them shall be Gazed at as comets by posterity. And thou meantime with never-withering bays Shall crowned be by all that read thy lays.
