With a band of king's players by Bill Shakespeare led,
I played many roles, e'en recalled the dead
To piece out my plot or to string out my rhyme,
Nor considered it theft, more an honor that time,
To borrow a plot for a queen or a king,
And watch their amuse as my poor muse would sing.
So each time I needed a plot or a play
I searched o'er the tomes where musty plots lay
Bulging out with ideas from craniums dust,
Whose shades may have helped as I now know and trust.
But that any one man made a plot or a play,
Or was such singled out as a ruse for my pay,
I deny in _fac toto_ in spirit this day.
Should any man's play be found in my work,
Which was not by me writ, 'tis a publisher's quirk;
Which one day I'll acclaim; for I mean to read all
As signed with my name_."
Young Graham was beyond words at this outpouring of verse. The mode of
language was not something he could identify with in his everyday world,
and it was quite beyond his level of comprehension. But he sensed this
was no ordinary man in his presence. "Are you really William
Shakespeare?" he ventured forth timidly. "And if you truly are, how
could you still be alive hundreds of years after you were born?"
"Well, young one," smiled the Bard kindly, "that is a long
story.
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