On Shakespear
What
needs
my
Shakespear
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
son
of
memory,
great
heir
of
Fame,
What
need'st
thou
such
weak
witnes
of
thy
name?
Thou
in
our
wonder
and
astonishment
Hast
built
thy
self
a
live-long
Monument.
For
whilst
to
th'
shame
of
slow-endeavouring
art,
Thy
easie
numbers
flow,
and
that
each
heart
Hath
from
the
leaves
of
thy
unvalu'd
Book,
Those
Delphick
lines
with
deep
impression
took,
Then
thou
our
fancy
of
it
self
bereaving,
Dost
make
us
Marble
with
too
much
conceaving;
And
so
Sepulcher'd
in
such
pomp
dost
lie,
That
Kings
for
such
a
Tomb
would
wish
to
die.
