Men stirr’d themselves and ransack’d o’er their wit

(Men stirr’d themselves and ransack’d o’er their wit, And did in their quiet homilies rack brain and soul To render unto the great dead A worthy tribute of their country’s love. With all the modern implements of learning writ They—each and either of them—their own favourite roll: “Not as you like it,” be it said,— He wrote a play while they their plans approve.)

“Will’s” cloudy days nigh spent, his sun arose! (God with him, tickling his fair brow and sparkling eye) With wisdom wrote he ’n majesty On high-born kings and lowly peasantry In rhyme’s sweet readings; lines of quaint sarcastic prose: Perhaps offendingly to some; whilst others sigh, Or laugh, or cry, and timidly Enjoy the witty man’s bright pleasantry.— Behold his genius! look ye to the skies; For like a planet, known by its respective sign, So was he—good William Shakespeare— Occupying the golden throne of history; Whose countless pages, fraught with gloomy mysteries— Stored o’er and o’er in ancient and in new design— Are lasting monuments, so dear, That he shall ne’er escape from memory.