Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare's self! <br />No head, save some world-genius, ought to rest <br />Above the treasures of that perfect breast, <br />Or nightly draw fresh light from those keen stars <br />Through which thy soul awes ours: yet thou art bound- <br />O waste of nature!-to a craven hound; <br />To shameless lust, and childish greed of pelf; <br />Athene to a Satyr: was that link <br />Forged by The Father's hand? Man's reason bars <br />The bans which God allowed.-Ay, so we think: <br />Forgetting, thou hadst weaker been, full blest, <br />Than thus made strong by suffering; and more great <br />In martyrdom, than throned as Caesar's mate. <br /> <br /> <br />Eversley, 1851.<br /><br />Charles Kingsley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-70/
