THOSE hands which yok so clapt, go now and wring,
You Britaines brave; for done are Shakespeare's dayes :
His dayes are done, that made the dainty Playes
Which make the Globe of heav'n and earth to ring.
Dry'de is that veine, dry'd is the Thespian Spring,
Turn'd all to teares, and Phoebus clouds his rayes :
That corps, that coffin, now besticke those bayes,
Which crown'd him Poet first, then Poets' King.
If Tragedies might any Prologue have,
All those he made, would scarce make one to this :
Where Fame, now that he gone is to the grave,
(Death’s publique tyring-house) the Nuncius is.
For, though his line of life went soone about,
The life yet of his lines shall never out.