A Poem by John Milton
What neede my Shakespeare for his honour`d bones
The labour of an Age in piled stones,
Or that his hallow`d Reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear Sonne of Memory, great Heire of Fame,
What needst thou such dull witness of thy Name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a lasting Monument:
For whilst, to the shame of slow endevouring Art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued Booke
Those Delphicke Lines with deep Impression tooke;
Then thou, our fancy of herself bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceiving;
And, so Sepulcher`d, i n such pompe dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tombe would wish to die.