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An Epistle to Mr. Southerne

Bold is the Muse to leave her humble Cell,
And sing to thee, who know'st to sing so well:
Thee! who to Britain still preserv'st the Crown,
And mak'st her rival Athens in Renown.
Cou'd Sophocles behold in mournful State,
The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait;

Or hear thy Isabella's moving Moan,
Distress'd and lost for Vices not her own;
If Envy cou'd permit, he'd sure agree
To write by Nature were to copy thee:
So full, so fair thy Images are shown,
He by thy Pencil might improve his own.

There was an Age, (its Memory will last!)
Before Italian Airs debauch'd our Taste;
In which the sable Muse with Hopes and Fears,
Fill'd every Breast, and ev'ry Eye with Tears.
But where's that Art, which all our Passions rais'd,
And mov'd the Springs of Nature as it pleas'd?

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poem by Elijah Fenton
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Drury-lane Prologue Spoken by Mr. Garrick

1 When Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes
2 First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakespear rose;
3 Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
4 Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new:
5 Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
6 And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:
7 His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,
8 And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast.

9 Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
10 To please in method, and invent by rule;
11 His studious patience, and laborious art,
12 By regular approach essay'd the heart;
13 Cold Approbation gave the ling'ring bays,
14 For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise.
15 A mortal born he met the general doom,
16 But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

17 The Wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,
18 Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakespear's flame,

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poem by Samuel Johnson
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Shakespear

Dear friend, if there be any bond
Which friendship wins not much beyond—
So old and fond, since thought began—
It may be that whose subtle span
Binds Shakespear to an English man.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Every good thing

every good thing
comes to an end
the beatles' last song
a slit in the heart
dividing two eras
the queen's smile
claimed by sand
shakespear's magic
overwhelmed by
academics and a wife
- that rose we could only
wish would never fade

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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When does a song become a poem?

Music is loved through culture.
But when does music become literature.
When does Chipmunk meet shakespear?
When will Slipknot become William Blake?
Soulless music makes milllions.
Cultural Poetry makes squat.
But if soulless music is the big life then i'm not looking to live it.

By a 13 year old ask before copying this.

poem by Joe Mason
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Me Shakespeare

Now I can writ dees sonnets too
Wit all dat poem and rhymin stuff
Jus like that Shakespeare buckaroo
His masterpieces ain’t dat tough
Dat Shakespear guy was pretty strange
He writ his stuff wit fedder quill
His underwear he’d never change
Dat was da secret to his skill
Now if ya think I’m foolin; hay!
Jes try ta read his garbled mess
Dat Shakespeare guy was really gay
A closet queen who wore a dress
So common guys, read my sonnet
Not dis guy in heels and bonnet

poem by Amera Andersen
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I Tell You Now I'm Not The One Who You Think I Am

Being of the top I never wanted
Take it, and be gone satans son
For I am not who you want.
Of great intellects I'm not
I see my self as a hack
Because someone says your good
This is not what I do
Only as a hobby I keep telling you
But know one listens.
No one ever listens.
In time it is something I shall not be missing
Let them be the poe's
Let them be the blake's
Let them be the shakespear's and frost's
For I am not them and care nothing for the fame
I hate it, as Bob Dylan hates his fans
I tell you now I'm not the one who you think I am
I most of all hate the censorship that comes with it.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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On Shakespear

What needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst toth' shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.

poem by John Milton
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Mud

Mud is Beauty in the making,
Mud is melody awaking;
Laughter, leafy whisperings,
Butterflies with rainbow wings;
Baby babble, lover's sighs,
Bobolink in lucent skies;
Ardours of heroic blood
All stem back to Matrix Mud.

Mud is mankind in the moulding,
Heaven's mystery unfolding;
Miracles of mighty men,
Raphael's brush and Shakespear's pen;
Sculpture, music, all we owe
Mozart, Michael Angelo;
Wonder, worship, dreaming spire,
Issue out of primal mire.

In the raw, red womb of Time
Man evolved from cosmic slime;

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poem by Robert William Service
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Timeless travel

Nature's wonder, it is in you,
With thoughts that travel from you,
Seek to go without a ticket,
By the power of your sheer thought,
Or travel to watch cricket.

Be it an adventure or a brawl,
you name it and see it all.
Zoom to the places you've not seen,
or to the places no one has been.

Meet Shakespear or cleopatra,
or go to Ancient Greece to watch an Opera.
Nature has given you the power,
the power to dream.

It is subtle, a dreamy state,
So dare to dream and do not waste.
It is a state where the future speaks,
a reassurace to all that 'You are not weak'.

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poem by Deepak Calyampoondi
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