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What needs my
Shakespeare for his honoured bones
The labour of an
age in piled stones?
Or that his hallowed relics
should be hid
Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'st
thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our
wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a
live-long monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring
art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those
Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou
our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dodt make us marble
with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchred in such
pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish
to die.
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