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And the veil Spun from the cobweb fashion of the times, TO hid the feeling heart?

The green retreats Of Academus.

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

At last the Muses rose, . . . And scattered, . . . as they flew, Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers To Arno's myrtle border.

This was Shakespeare's form; Who walked in every path of human life, Felt every passion; and to all mankind Doth now, will ever, that experience yield Which his own genius only could acquire.