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WHAT needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones, The labour of an age in pilèd stones? Or that his hollowed relics should be hid Under a stary-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 livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring 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 sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
~John Milton
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