Why didst thou write to tease my weathered mind?
In eighteen years on earth I searched to find,
Translations for your works of tangled strife,
Although thy quill ceased long before my life.
Rhymes and riddles I scarcely understand,
Yet read thy works tradition dost demand.
O’re wrought with visions ravaging your head,
I doubt you, Shakespeare, knew the words you bled.
Hard toiling with thy voice of middle age,
I know why actors dropped upon thy stage.
Hamlet passed to end thy scripted madness,
Romeo to flee from certain sadness;
Still, the globe rejoices thy works to see,
And in respect this sonnet mirrors thee.