That face which no man ever saw 
And from his memory banished quite, 
With eyes in which are Hamlet's awe 
And Cardinal Richelieu's subtle light, 
Looks from this frame. A master's hand 
Has set the master player here, 
In the fair temple that he planned 
Not for himself. To us most dear 
This image of him! "It was thus 
He looked; such pallor touched his cheek; 
With that same grace he greeted us-- 
Nay, 't is the man, could it but speak!" 
Sad words that shall be said some day-- 
Far fall the day! O cruel Time, 
Whose breath sweeps mortal things away, 
Spare long this image of his prime, 
That others standing in the place 
Where, save as ghosts, we come no more, 
May know what sweet majestic face 
The gentle Prince of Players wore!