To whom do I liken thee, oh god of gods: William Shakespeare,
Art thou not an immortal god or an incarnate of a spirit being?
Howbeit thy sepulcher, is but an idol, kept sacr'd by all human?
Of a truth, thy wisdom is greater than the wisdom of gods.

Whereupon thy plaque of wisdom, do I invest my foolishness?
I'll treasure thee until the ocean is fold'd and hung up to dry:
Thou art a monument without a tomb, yet art fore'er alive in history,
If I can but fit into thy beard, only then will I be fit to wed myself.

Shakespeare, art thou a supernatural god or an immortal creature?
Howbeit thy enchanting quill doth live, in spite of death, and cannot die?
Thy historic writings I'll idolize, for to thy muse, I am confess'd,
To whom do I liken thee, thou wittiest of all Socrates, if not but a god.

To thy legacies I am confess'd, for thy pen is worth more than gold,
Thou art the enigma of all times, none can exist thus like thee:
The Gigantic Ink that paint'd the pages of history with a historic Art;
Sage, thou art a historic page whose duplicate canne'er be produc'd.

Beneath thy tomb lies an Art, which neither man nor nature can ever forget,
Thou was not for an age, but all time, for nature herself boast'd of thee;
Mellifluous Shakespeare, thy historic impacts makes the silent grave arous'd,
Thou the wittiest sage of all times, whose name doth deck history.

To whom do I liken thee, thou Sweet Swan of Avon, William Shakespeare,
Thou art the Idol of all sages who flights upon the river of Thames,
Shakespeare, thou art the wittiest of all Socrates, whose muse cannot be tam'd,
Of a truth, thou art a historic sage whose name history canne'er forget.