DISMISS your apprehension, pseudo bard, <br />For no one wishes to disturb these stones, <br />Nor cares if here or in the outer yard <br />They stow your impudent, deceitful bones. <br /> <br />Your foolish-colored bust upon the wall, <br />With its preposterous expanse of brow, <br />Shall rival Humpty Dumpty’s famous fall, <br />And cheats no cultured Boston people now. <br /> <br />Steal deer, hold horses, act your third-rate parts, <br />Hoard money, booze, neglect Anne Hathaway,— <br />You can’t deceive us with your stolen arts; <br />Like many a worthier dog, you’ve had your day. <br /> <br />I have expresst your history in a cyfer, <br />I ’ve done your sum for all ensuing time, <br />I don’t know what you longer wish to lie for <br />Beneath these stones or in your doggerel rhyme. <br /> <br />Get up and flit, or plunge into the river, <br />Or walk the chancel with a ghostly squeak, <br />You were an ignorant and evil liver, <br />Who could not spell, nor write, nor read much Greek. <br /> <br />Tho’ you enslaved the ages by your spell, <br />And Fame has blown no reputation louder, <br />Your cake is dough, for I by sifting well <br />Have quite reduced your dust to Bacon-powder.<br /><br />Irving Browne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-shakespeare-s-grave/
