Once, after long-drawn revel at The Mermaid |
He to the overbearing Boanerges |
Jonson, uttered (if half of it were liquor, |
Blessed be the vintage!) |
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Saying how, at an alehouse under Cotswold, |
He had made sure of his very Cleopatra |
Drunk with enormous, salvation-contemning |
Love for a tinker. |
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How, while he hid from Sir Thomas's keepers, |
Crouched in a ditch and drenched by the midnight |
Dews, he had listened to gipsy Juliet |
Rail at the dawning. |
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How at Bankside, a boy drowning kittens |
Winced at the business; whereupon his sister - |
Lady Macbeth aged seven - thrust ’em under, |
Sombrely scornful. |
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How on a Sabbath, hushed and compassionate - |
She being known since her birth to the townsfolk - |
Stratford dredged and delivered from Avon |
Dripping Ophelia. |
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So, with a thin third finger marrying |
Drop to wine-drop domed on the table, |
Shakespeare opened his heart till the sunrise |
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Passed from waking to hurry after shadows... |
Busied upon shows of no earthly importance? |
Yes, but he knew it! |