He has scenes of undoubted and perpetual excellence, but perhaps
not one play, which, if it were now exhibited as the work of a
contemporary writer, would be heard to the conclusion. I am indeed
far from thinking, that his works were wrought to his own ideas
of perfection; when they were such as would satisfy the audience,
they satisfied the writer. It is seldom that authours, though more
studious of fame than Shakespeare, rise much above the standard
of their own age; to add a little of what is best will always
be sufficient for present praise, and those who find themselves
exalted into fame, are willing to credit their encomiasts, and to
spare the labour of contending with themselves.

It does not appear, that Shakespeare thought his works worthy of
posterity, that he levied any ideal tribute upon future times, or
had any further prospect, than of present popularity and present
profit. When his plays had been acted, his hope was at an end;
he solicited no addition of honour from the reader. He therefore
made no scruple to repeat the same jests in many dialogues, or to
entangle different plots by the same knot of perplexity, which may
be at least forgiven him, by those who recollect, that of Congreve's
four comedies, two are concluded by a marriage in a mask, by a
deception, which perhaps never happened, and which, whether likely
or not, he did not invent.

So careless was this great poet of future fame, that, though he
retired to ease and plenty, while he was yet little "declined into
the vale of years," before he could be disgusted with fatigue,
or disabled by infirmity, he made no collection of his works, nor
desired to rescue those that had been already published from the