O William Shakespeare, o ancient bard: br How now do I so treasure the answers you once possessed, br Which now rot and like you were eaten by worms (themselves already eaten) in the sodden earth, br Which resounded once to you in the voice of immortal guides reflecting in whimsical sonnets, muses whom even you lost br Which rolled off your pen like leaves from the tree of your life, not a single one wasted, br And which now lie on paper, immortal dead words that cannot be revived.