No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange
They are but dressings of a former sight.
.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old
And rather make it born to our desire
Than think,
that we before have heard it told.
.
.
Thy registers and thee I both defy
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
.
.
This I do vow, and this shall ever be:
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.
***
Sonnet 123 for birthday 456. Tribute, such as it is, composed in lockdown, hobbled by a tablet with limited features — and an addled brain.
***
Lately a couple of interesting pieces have appeared exploring obscure aspects of Shakespeare’s own life.
Here is one on recent recent archaeology in Stratford (and an online exhibition planned in early May!)
This one connects the lesser known poet Thomas Watson with Shakespeare as a possible co-author.
***
Technology, fashion, language evolve;
truths of the human heart endure.
Many happy returns, Will,
and thanks for all the verse.
This world would be a poorer stage without thee.