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No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd,
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word
She shook the world."

- Tennyson.

“What needs my Shakspeare, for his honour'd bones,

The labour of an age in piled stones ?
Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid
Under a starry-pointing pyramid ?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,
Hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavouring Art,
Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving ;
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die."


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