You are a friend then, as I make it out, 
Of our man Shakespeare, who alone of us 
Will put an ass?s head in Fairyland 
As he would add a shilling to more shillings, 
All most harmonious,?and out of his
Miraculous inviolable increase 
Fills Ilion, Rome, or any town you like 
Of olden time with timeless Englishmen; 
And I must wonder what you think of him? 
All you down there where your small Avon flows
By Stratford, and where you?re an Alderman. 
Some, for a guess, would have him riding back 
To be a farrier there, or say a dyer; 
Or maybe one of your adept surveyors; 
Or like enough the wizard of all tanners.
Not you?no fear of that; for I discern 
In you a kindling of the flame that saves? 
The nimble element, the true caloric; 
I see it, and was told of it, moreover, 
By our discriminate friend himself, no other.
Had you been one of the sad average, 
As he would have it,?meaning, as I take it, 
The sinew and the solvent of our Island, 
You?d not be buying beer for this Terpander?s 
Approved and estimated friend Ben Jonson;
He?d never foist it as a part of his 
Contingent entertainment of a townsman 
While he goes off rehearsing, as he must, 
If he shall ever be the Duke of Stratford. 
And my words are no shadow on your town?
Far from it; for one town?s as like another 
As all are unlike London. Oh, he knows it,? 
And there?s the Stratford in him; he denies it, 
And there?s the Shakespeare in him. So, God help him! 
I tell him he needs Greek; but neither God
Nor Greek will help him. Nothing will help that man. 
You see the fates have given him so much, 
He must have all or perish,?or look out 
Of London, where he sees too many lords. 
They?re part of half what ails him: I suppose
There?s nothing fouler down among the demons 
Than what it is he feels when he remembers 
The dust and sweat and ointment of his calling 
With his lords looking on and laughing at him. 
King as he is, he can?t be king de facto,
And that?s as well, because he wouldn?t like it; 
He?d frame a lower rating of men then 
Than he has now; and after that would come 
An abdication or an apoplexy. 
He can?t be king, not even king of Stratford,?
Though half the world, if not the whole of it, 
May crown him with a crown that fits no king 
Save Lord Apollo?s homesick emissary: 
Not there on Avon, or on any stream 
Where Naiads and their white arms are no more,
Shall he find home again. It?s all too bad. 
But there?s a comfort, for he?ll have that House? 
The best you ever saw; and he?ll be there 
Anon, as you?re an Alderman. Good God! 
He makes me lie awake o?nights and laugh.

And you have known him from his origin, 
You tell me; and a most uncommon urchin 
He must have been to the few seeing ones? 
A trifle terrifying, I dare say, 
Discovering a world with his man?s eyes,
Quite as another lad might see some finches, 
If he looked hard and had an eye for nature. 
But this one had his eyes and their foretelling, 
And he had you to fare with, and what else? 
He must have had a father and a mother?
In fact I?ve heard him say so?and a dog, 
As a boy should, I venture; and the dog, 
Most likely, was the only man who knew him. 
A dog, for all I know, is what he needs 
As much as anything right here to-day,
To counsel him about his disillusions, 
Old aches, and parturitions of what?s coming,? 
A dog of orders, an emeritus, 
To wag his tail at him when he comes home, 
And then to put his paws up on his knees
And say, ?For God?s sake, what?s it all about?? 

I don?t know whether he needs a dog or not? 
Or what he needs. I tell him he needs Greek; 
I?ll talk of rules and Aristotle with him, 
And if his tongue?s at home he?ll say to that,
?I have your word that Aristotle knows, 
And you mine that I don?t know Aristotle.? 
He?s all at odds with all the unities, 
And what?s yet worse, it doesn?t seem to matter; 
He treads along through Time?s old wilderness
As if the tramp of all the centuries 
Had left no roads?and there are none, for him; 
He doesn?t see them, even with those eyes,? 
And that?s a pity, or I say it is. 
Accordingly we have him as we have him?
Going his way, the way that he goes best, 
A pleasant animal with no great noise 
Or nonsense anywhere to set him off? 
Save only divers and inclement devils 
Have made of late his heart their dwelling place.
A flame half ready to fly out sometimes 
At some annoyance may be fanned up in him, 
But soon it falls, and when it falls goes out; 
He knows how little room there is in there 
For crude and futile animosities,
And how much for the joy of being whole, 
And how much for long sorrow and old pain. 
On our side there are some who may be given 
To grow old wondering what he