The ponderous manuscripts which bore his goodly name—
Those volumes so well understood.
O god of bards, thou wert the greatest sage!
* * * * *
“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: