Four hundred years is too little a time
To understand the man, his life, his rhyme Nothing now survives of his flowing hand
For all his ability he bequeathed unplanned
For very soon after he met his untimely ends
The first folio was published by two of his friends
It is no random collection by dutiful clerks
For only love could have completed the works
And love is seen in each parchment leaf
For each page was complied in utter grief
400 years slip by but time does not dim
The importance of his words that lie within
And its prominence doth not ever abate
Shakespeare rest quietly in your revered state
And as into the ages you now gently sleep
Supreme master of words you left in our keep
We know little of your life and its ends
But in Heminges and Condell you had friends
For in comedy, tragedy, sonnet and song
They executed perfectly your elegant tongue
And nothing is certain though all scholars guess
In the future your words will persist to impress
