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You Britain’s brave; for done are Shakespeare’s days.
His days are done, that made the dainty plays,
Which made the Globe of heav'n and earth to ring.
Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian Spring,
Turned all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays.
That corpse, that coffin, now bestick[1] those bays,
Which crowned him poet first, then poets’ king.
If tragedies might any prologue have,
Where fame, now that he gone is to the grave
(Deaths public tiring-house),[2] the nuncius[3] is.
For though his line of life went soon about,
The life yet of his lines shall never out.


  1. To stick over, as with sharp points pressed in, here probably an allusion to Christ's crown of thorns.
  2. A section of the theatre reserved for actors used for costume changes and entrances and exits.
  3. A messenger.
