Go to, old lad, 'tis time that thou wert wiser —
Thou art not fram'd for an
There's  now, or his nimble shadow
Strait in the back, and lissome in the loins,
Who wears his boot smooth as his mistress' skin,
And shining as the glass she dresses in;
Can bow and cringe, fawn, flatter, cog and lye —
Which honest  cou'd never do — not I.
Hal's heir-apparent face might stand it buff,
And make (ha! ha! ha!) a saucy epilogue enough;
But I am old, and stiff — nay, bashful grown,
For Shakespear's humour is not now my own.
I feel myself a counterfeiting ass;
And if for  wit I give you
It is his  makes it pass.
Fancy now works; and here I stand and stew
In mine own greasy fears, which set to view
Eleven buckram critics in each man of you.
Wights, who with no out-faceings will be shamm'd,
Nor into risibility be
Will, tho' she shake their sides, think  treason,
And see one damn'd, ere — laugh without a reason.