“Light! I salute thee, but with wounded nerves,
Wishing thy golden splendour pitchy darkness.”
There is no reason to suppose Satan’s address to the sun in the _Paradise
Lost_, more than a mere coincidence with these lines; but were it
otherwise, it would be a fine instance what usurious interest a great
genius pays in borrowing. It would not be difficult to give a detailed
psychological proof from these constant outbursts of anxious
self-assertion, that Jonson was not a genius, a creative power. Subtract
that one thing, and you may safely accumulate on his name all other
excellences of a capacious, vigorous, agile, and richly-stored intellect.