John Milton (1608–1674)

WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones,

The labor of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?

Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame,

What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a live long monument.

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavoring art

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book

Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,

Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;

And so sepùlchred in such pomp dost lie,

That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.