Not that always where the language is intricate the thought
is subtle, or the image always great where the line is bulky; the
equality of words to things is very often neglected, and trivial
sentiments and vulgar ideas disappoint the attention, to which they
are recommended by sonorous epithets and swelling figures.

But the admirers of this great poet have never less reason to
indulge their hopes of supreme excellence, than when he seems fully
resolved to sink them in dejection, and mollify them with tender
emotions by the fall of greatness, the danger of innocence, or the
crosses of love. He is not long soft and pathetick without some
idle conceit, or contemptible equivocation. He no sooner begins to
move, than he counteracts himself; and terrour and pity, as they
are rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden frigidity.

A quibble is to Shakespeare, what luminous vapours are to the
traveller; he follows it at all adventures, it is sure to lead him
out of his way, and sure to engulf him in the mire. It has some
malignant power over his mind, and its fascinations are irresistible.
Whatever be the dignity or profundity of his disquisition, whether
he be enlarging knowledge or exalting affection, whether he be
amusing attention with incidents, or enchaining it in suspense,
let but a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves his work
unfinished. A quibble is the golden apple for which he will always
turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble
poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was content
to purchase it, by the sacrifice of reason, propriety and truth. A
quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world,
and was content to lose it.