On Shakespeare

John Milton

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in pilèd Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a stary pointing Pyramid?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.

Poems by This Author

Paradise Lost, Book I, Lines 221-270 by John Milton
Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime
Paradise Lost, Book IV, Lines 639–652 by John Milton
With thee conversing I forget all time
Paradise Lost, Book IV, [The Argument] by John Milton
O for that warning voice, which he who saw
Paradise Lost, Book VI, Lines 801-866 by John Milton
Stand still in bright array, ye Saints; here stand
Lycidas by John Milton
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
On His Deceased Wife by John Milton
Me thought I saw my late espousèd Saint
On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity by John Milton
This is the month, and this the happy morn
On Time by John Milton
Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race
Song On May Morning by John Milton
Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger
To the Same by John Milton
Cyriack, this three years’ day these eyes, though clear
When I Consider How My Light Is Spent by John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,

Further Reading

Related Authors
William Shakespeare