Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbeare

To digg the dust encloased heare.

Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones

And curst be he yt moves my bones.

The Epitaph That Appears on Shakespeare’s Tomb (He wrote it all by himself)

Dig the Dust Enclosed Here 

                       by Shawn Hamilton

To think we deified You, poacher of deer,

Poacher of Mysteries,

Barely educated businessman exalted upon the faulty altar of public opinion.

Twain called you a fraud —

And those who worship you,

“Blatherskites” and “Stratfordolaters.”

The Greatest Writer in the World,

You never left a scrap of Your holy writ —

Not a play or manuscript in the entire

Inventory of Will.

You signed legal papers though,

Willing your wanton wife your “second-best” bed.

Scholars created your Lordship, Twain tells us,

From nearly airy nothingness,

Erecting a grand Brontosaurus

From a slight shard of bone.

But Shakespeare signifies the Common Man,

Not secret son of a virgin queen and cultured earl,

Whose loves’ labours were lost upon

A nescient knavery.

We want to believe Him.

We want to believe that he, our country cousin,

Could stroll courts with lords,

Speak divinely with gods,

Having never graduated

From a recognised School.

Honorificabilitudinitatibus,

Shakespeare.

You’re a mask, a disguise,

A bought bard,

Paid well to welter forth

Teachings of The Invisible College.

We bear you no malice

That you sold your name,

But you should have asked your patrons

(You were in a good position)

To write for you

A decent

Epitaph.

 

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