hat neede my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,
The labour of an age, in piled stones,
Or that his hallow'd Relikes should be hid,
Vnder a starre-ypointing Pyramid?
Deare Sonne of Memory, great heire of Fame,
What needs thou such weake witnesse of thy name,
Thou in our wonder and astoneshment,
Hast built thy selfe a live-long Monument:
For whilst to th'shame of slow endevouring Art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart,
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Booke,
Thoase Delphicke lines with deepe Impression tooke.
Then thou our fancy of our selfe bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving,
And so Sepulcher'd in such pompe doth lie,
That Kings for such a Tombe would wish to die.