The tempest” of life he did begin to fare

“The tempest” of life he did begin to fare One April-month, ’tis writ (in Fifteen’ sixty-four) Not “much ado about nothing.” “Love’s labour lost?” Oh, no—indeed ’twere not! In him were planted tender shrubs, and striplings rare, Which grew, at length, to giant trunks of strength and pow’r: In literature he ’came a king. To grasp the sceptre of the stage he wrote.