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 simply for love at bay,
she would not have it only half a way.