Marston is a writer of great merit, who rose to tragedy from the ground of comedy, and whose forte was not sympathy, either with the stronger or softer emotions, but an impatient scorn and bitter indignation against the vices and follies of men, which vented itself either in comic irony or in lofty invective. He was properly a satirist.

Speak, speak, let terror strike slaves mute, Much danger makes great hearts most resolute.

Sing of the nature of women, and then the song shall be surely full of variety; old crotchets and most sweet closes. It shall be humorous, grave, fantastic, am…

For see, the dapple-grey coursers of the morn Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, And chase it through the sky.

Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that's scarcely felt or seen.

I handed in a script last year and the studio didn't change one word. The word they didn't change was on page 87.

Satire, though it may exaggerate the vice it lashes, is not justified in creating it in order that it may be lashed.