It Can't Be Nature, For

Fame Is Nothing But An Empty Name.

The Oak, When Living, Monarch Of The Wood; The English Oak, Which, Dead, Commands The Flood.

With Curious Art The Brain, Too Finely Wrought, Preys On Herself, And Is Destroyed By Thought.

The Laws I Love; The Lawyers I Suspect.

In The First Seat, In Robe Of Various Dyes, A Noble Wildness Flashing From His Eyes, Sat Shakespeare: In One Hand A Wand He Bore, For Mighty Wonders Fam'd In Days Of Yore: The Other Held A Globe, Which To His Will Obedient Turn'd, And Own'd The Master's Skill: Things Of The Noblest Kind His Genius Drew, And Look'd Through Nature At A Single View: A Loose He Gave To His Unbounded Soul, And Taught New Lands To Rise, New Seas To Roll; Call'd Into Being Scenes Unknown Before, And Passing Nature's Bounds, Was Something More.