Poor William

In times of old, great Shakespeare wrote such rhymes

To surpass any poet of our times
Although he was applauded far too much
For themes immortal, planted by his touch.
If Will himself had thought of grand charades
That mask’d such timeless themes, so grandly play’d,
I am assured that William’s balding head
So crammed with lovers, statesmen and the dead,
Would, overfilled by this excess of thought,
Explode, and Will’s fine quills would be for naught.


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