Sunday, April 27, 2014


        Then is it true, the wonder of our age,
        Of playwrights nearest to divinity
        Who conjured spectacles upon our stage
        Destined to live through all eternity
        Is dead?  O, woe betide all who survive,
        Especially us players here bereft,
        Who now conjointly must with wit contrive
        A play like his, as cunning and as deft.
        We have no script to con and yet today
        The Globe itself is destined to be packed;
        The world entire awaits his latest play
        And we have none, not e’en a single act!
             Yet let us pray to summon up his Muse,
             For with her aid, we surely shall not lose.