I’ve painted Shakespeare all my life—
“An infant” (even then at “play”!)
“A boy,” with stage-ambition rife,
Then “Married to Ann Hathaway.”
“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”),
His “First appearance on the stage,”
His “Call before the curtain”—then
“Rejoicings when he came of age.”
The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk.
The bard a lawyer [287a]—parson [287b]—groom [287c]—
The bard deer-stealing, after dark.
The bard a tradesman [288a]—and a Jew [288b]—
The bard a botanist [288c]—a beak [288d]—
The bard a skilled musician [288e] too—
A sheriff [288f] and a surgeon [288g] eke!
Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though it’s evident I try,
Yet even I can barely mock
The glimmer of his wondrous eye!
One morning as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard:
“My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed,
“How very like my dear old bard!
“Oh, what a model he would make!”
I rushed outside—impulsive me!—
“Forgive the liberty I take,
But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he.
“You needn’t waste your breath or time,—
I know what you are going to say,—
That you’re an artist, and that I’m
Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh?
“You wish that I would sit to you?”
I clasped him madly round the waist,
And breathlessly replied, “I do!”
“All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”
I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve,—
There never was a nobler face!