‘This certainly is Shakespeare’s son,’
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry ‘Author,’ when the piece is done.
“In church the people stare at me,
Their soul the sermon never binds;
I catch them looking round to see,
And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.
“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,
Who find it difficult to crown
A bust with Brown’s insipid smile