If all those plays were writ by him,
a fact to which we now adhere,
he would not have much time for whim,
thus let alone to shake his spear.

He joined a troupe by happenchance,
left love in Stratford upon Avon.
The stage he climbed to strike his stance,
in labour lost as in great London.

I offer you a fool's conjecture,
the provenance of his poetry:
a meek forgiveness-seeking gesture,
mistaken for arcane adultery.

The sonnets were for love at bay,
she would not have it half a way.