He was not of an age, but for all time! 
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! 
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! 
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of nature’s family. 
Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part. 
For though the poet’s matter nature be,
His heart doth give the fashion:  and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muse’s anvil; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet’s made, as well as born. 
And such wert thou!  Look how the father’s face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakspeare’s mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned, and true filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James! 
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there! 
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light.

TO CELIA

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
   And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
   And I’ll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
   Doth ask a drink divine: 
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
   I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
   Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
   It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
   And sent’st it back to me: 
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
   Not of itself, but thee.

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS

See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth! 
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And, enamoured, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.