Each line revolves on itself in a sort of separate orbit.

They do not join into one another like a running-hand.

Fletcher's ideas moved slow; his versification, though sweet, is tedious, it stops at every turn; he lays line upon line, making up one after the other, adding image to image so deliberately, that we see their junctures.

Shakspeare mingles everything, runs line into line, embarrasses sentences and metaphors; before one idea has burst its shell, another is hatched and clamorous for disclosure.

Another striking difference between Fletcher and Shakspeare is the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent situations.