Of Shakespeare

Ò beautified verse: Thine own self must know For that fruitful river is that which you bled And that pureness of rhyme you see as snow as we sing the world rhymèd in thy head. Jealous, I sit, when I read longing lines For knives be sharper: as must be your wit, Grass greener which in your mind shines Your mirror far deeper of which you writ. Did your poems and your breath count fewer? As mountains collapsed and rivers withered or does river flow: I feel it endure so strong that is burning in thy blizzard Thus I place this mirror and mock myself. As I, a gentle fool, do speak of thy wealth.