Upon the Lines and Life of the Famous Scenic Poet, Master William Shakespeare
Those hands which you so clapt, go now and wring,
You Britons brave; for done are Shakespeare's days:
His days are done, that made the dainty plays
Which made the Globe of heaven and earth to ring.
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian spring,
Turned all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays:
That corpse, that coffin, now bestick those bays
Which crowned him Poet first, then Poets' King.
If Tragedies might any Prologue have,
All those he made would scarce make one to this:
Where Fame, now that he is gone to the grave
(Death's public tiring-house), the Nuncius is.
For though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines shall never out.
You Britons brave; for done are Shakespeare's days:
His days are done, that made the dainty plays
Which made the Globe of heaven and earth to ring.
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian spring,
Turned all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays:
That corpse, that coffin, now bestick those bays
Which crowned him Poet first, then Poets' King.
If Tragedies might any Prologue have,
All those he made would scarce make one to this:
Where Fame, now that he is gone to the grave
(Death's public tiring-house), the Nuncius is.
For though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines shall never out.
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