Move them Bones

If wit is meant to pass from pen to mind,

propelled and yet suspended by the page,

then what Will wrote to tell, he had designed

to weather all and amberize his age—

and yet the fuel's still fanning further sparks

which touch a synapse and light up a fuse,

all kindled from the deep and vasty darks

below the puns and sayings we abuse:

a Moor is still Iago'd, Shylocks stocked,

and Elsinore is in a rotten state;

the Globe resumed and scores of actors blocked;

a brave new world still standing at the gate.

Forbear your rest in undug dust, old bones:

be cursed, good friend, and ever shake your stones.