Thinking (feebly) of Mr. S on his birthday and the quadricentenary of his death:
One who’s wicked, Another good, Knave or brave, Yet understood.
Common folk and royalty In virtue or perfidy Drawn in quartos Prose and poetry.
Maid, soldier, lover, king, Shout, quarrel, whisper, sing. Cast our parts; direct our roles Pierce our hearts; try our souls
Happy birthday, Then peaceful rest; Scant fifty-two summers To weigh humanness.
Page to stage And mind to pen, Take his gifts as ever new And know ourselves again.