After The Rare Arch-Poet, Jonson, Died, The Sock Grew Loathsome, And The Buskin'S Pride, Together With The Stage'S Glory, Stood Each Like A Poor And Pitied Widowhood. The Cirque Profan'D Was, And All Postures Rack'D; For Men Did Strut, And Stride, And Stare, Not Act. Then Temper Flew From Words, And Men Did Squeak, Look Red, And Blow, And Bluster, But Not Speak; No Holy Rage Or Frantic Fires Did Stir Or Flash About The Spacious Theatre. No Clap Of Hands, Or Shout, Or Praise'S Proof Did Crack The Play-House Sides, Or Cleave Her Roof. Artless The Scene Was, And That Monstrous Sin Of Deep And Arrant Ignorance Came In: Such Ignorance As Theirs Was Who Once Hiss'D At Thy Unequall'D Play, The Alchemist; Oh, Fie Upon 'Em! Lastly, Too, All Wit In Utter Darkness Did, And Still Will Sit, Sleeping The Luckless Age Out, Till That She Her Resurrection Has Again With Thee.