For none your privilege shall gainsay
To be exalted in your day
And more, your oeuvre did withstand
The trial of centuries’ strict demand
With ease it seems great flow did slip
Throughout your laurelled stewardship
Of Thespis’ ancient archetype
That you, O Bard, did render ripe
An aureate prose in plenteous leaves
Of all that consciousness perceives
No epitaph nor monument
Your legacy could represent
And though the baseborn poet tries
To echo you in faint disguise
No mortal writer’s leaden pen
Could verbalise, as you did then
To Shakespeare
