To Live A Life Half Dead, A

With Thee Conversing I Forget All Time.

What Needs My Shakespeare For His Honour'd Bones,- The Labour Of An Age In Piled Stones? Or That His Hallow'd Relics Should Be Hid Under A Star-y-pointing Pyramid? Dear Son Of Memory, Great Heir Of Fame, What Need'st Thou Such Weak Witness Of Thy Name?

Consider First, That Great Or Bright Infers Not Excellence.

Or Sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's Child!

No Mighty Trance, Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.