SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATIONMasters, I sleep not quiet in my grave,There where they laid me, by the Avonshore,In that some crazy wights have set it forthBy arguments most false and fanciful,Analogy and far-drawn inference,That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam(A man whom I remember in old days,A learned judge with sly adhesive palms,To which the suitor's gold was wont tostick) —That this same Verulam had writ the playsWhich were the fancies of my frolic brain.What can they urge to dispossess the crownWhich all my comrades and the whole loudworldDid in my lifetime lay upon my brow?Look straitly at these arguments and seeHow witless and how fondly slight they be.Imprimis, they have urged that, beingbornIn the mean compass of a paltry town,I could not in my youth have trimmedmy mindTo such an eagle pitch, but must be found,Like the hedge sparrow, somewhere nearthe ground.Bethink you, sirs, that though I wasdeniedThe learning which in colleges is found,Yet may a hungry brain still find its foWherever books may lie or men may be;And though perchance by Isis or by CamThe meditative, philosophic plantMay best luxuriate; yet some would sayThat in the task of limning mortal lifeA fitter preparation might be madeBeside the banks of Thames. And thenagain,If I be suspect, in that I was notA fellow of a college, how, I pray,Will Jonson pass, or Marlowe, or the rest,Whose measured verse treads with asproud a gaitAs that which was my own? Whence didthey suckThis honey that they stored? Can youreciteThe vantages which each of these has hadAnd I had not? Or is the argumentThat my Lord Verulam hath written all,And covers in his wide-embracing selfThe stolen fame of twenty smaller men?You prate about my learning. Iwould urgeMy want of learning rather as a proofThat I am still myself. Have I not tracedA seaboard to Bohemia, and madeThe cannons roar a whole wide centuryBefore the first was forged? Think you,then,That he, the ever-learned Verulam,Would have erred thus? So may my veryfaultsIn their gross falseness prove that I am true,And by that falseness gender truth in you.And what is left? They say that theyhave foundA script, wherein the writer tells my LordHe is a secret poet. True enough!But surely now that secret is o'er past.Have you not read his poems? Knowyou notThat in our day a learned chancellorMight better far dispense unjustest lawThan be suspect of such frivolityAs lies in verse? Therefore his poetryWas secret. Now that he is gone'Tis so no longer. You may read his verse,And judge if mine be better or be worse:Read and pronounce! The meed ofpraise is thine;But still let his be his and mine be mine.I say no more; but how can you for-swearOutspoken Jonson, he who knew me well;So, too, the epitaph which still you read?Think you they faced my sepulchre withlies —Gross lies, so evident and palpableThat every townsman must have wot of it,And not a worshipper within the churchBut must have smiled to see the marbledfraud?Surely this touches you? But if by chanceMy reasoning still leaves you obdurate,I'll lay one final plea. I pray you lookOn my presentment, as it reaches you.My features shall be sponsors for my fame;My brow shall speak when Shakespeare'svoice is dumb,And be his warrant in an age to come.
Masters, I sleep not quiet in my grave,There where they laid me, by the Avonshore,In that some crazy wights have set it forthBy arguments most false and fanciful,Analogy and far-drawn inference,That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam(A man whom I remember in old days,A learned judge with sly adhesive palms,To which the suitor's gold was wont tostick) —That this same Verulam had writ the playsWhich were the fancies of my frolic brain.What can they urge to dispossess the crownWhich all my comrades and the whole loudworldDid in my lifetime lay upon my brow?Look straitly at these arguments and seeHow witless and how fondly slight they be.Imprimis, they have urged that, beingbornIn the mean compass of a paltry town,I could not in my youth have trimmedmy mindTo such an eagle pitch, but must be found,Like the hedge sparrow, somewhere nearthe ground.Bethink you, sirs, that though I wasdeniedThe learning which in colleges is found,Yet may a hungry brain still find its foWherever books may lie or men may be;And though perchance by Isis or by CamThe meditative, philosophic plantMay best luxuriate; yet some would sayThat in the task of limning mortal lifeA fitter preparation might be madeBeside the banks of Thames. And thenagain,If I be suspect, in that I was notA fellow of a college, how, I pray,Will Jonson pass, or Marlowe, or the rest,Whose measured verse treads with asproud a gaitAs that which was my own? Whence didthey suckThis honey that they stored? Can youreciteThe vantages which each of these has hadAnd I had not? Or is the argumentThat my Lord Verulam hath written all,And covers in his wide-embracing selfThe stolen fame of twenty smaller men?You prate about my learning. Iwould urgeMy want of learning rather as a proofThat I am still myself. Have I not tracedA seaboard to Bohemia, and madeThe cannons roar a whole wide centuryBefore the first was forged? Think you,then,That he, the ever-learned Verulam,Would have erred thus? So may my veryfaultsIn their gross falseness prove that I am true,And by that falseness gender truth in you.And what is left? They say that theyhave foundA script, wherein the writer tells my LordHe is a secret poet. True enough!But surely now that secret is o'er past.Have you not read his poems? Knowyou notThat in our day a learned chancellorMight better far dispense unjustest lawThan be suspect of such frivolityAs lies in verse? Therefore his poetryWas secret. Now that he is gone'Tis so no longer. You may read his verse,And judge if mine be better or be worse:Read and pronounce! The meed ofpraise is thine;But still let his be his and mine be mine.I say no more; but how can you for-swearOutspoken Jonson, he who knew me well;So, too, the epitaph which still you read?Think you they faced my sepulchre withlies —Gross lies, so evident and palpableThat every townsman must have wot of it,And not a worshipper within the churchBut must have smiled to see the marbledfraud?Surely this touches you? But if by chanceMy reasoning still leaves you obdurate,I'll lay one final plea. I pray you lookOn my presentment, as it reaches you.My features shall be sponsors for my fame;My brow shall speak when Shakespeare'svoice is dumb,And be his warrant in an age to come.