The author, touched by the insanity of genius, must ever live in the mind of the reader, and while posterity shall forget even warriors, kings and queens, it never fails to preserve in marble, granite, bronze and song the name and fame of great poets. David, Solomon, Job, Homer, Horace, Ovid, Angelo, Dante and Plutarch are deeply imbedded in the memory of mankind, and although great kingdoms, empires and dynasties, have passed away to the rubbish heap of oblivion, the poet, musician, painter, and sculptor still remain to thrill and beautify life, and teach hope of immortality beyond the grave. After gazing on the statues of abbots, Knights Templar, Knights of the Bath, bishops, statesmen, kings and queens, many mutilated by time and profane hands, William stood by the coffin of Edward the Confessor and mournfully soliloquized: _Westminster! lofty heir of Pagan Temple; Imperial in stone; a thousand years Crowns the record of thy inheritance, Gilding the glory of thy ancient fame, With imperishable deeds-- Liberty of thought and action, shall Forever cluster about thy classic form; While new men with new creeds, and reason, Shall overturn the religions of to-day, As thou hast invaded and destroyed The Pagan, Roman rules of antiquity. These marble hands and faces appealing For remembrance, to animated dust Appeal in vain, for we, whose footfalls Only sound in marble ears, cold and listless, Shall ourselves follow where they led, dying Not knowing the mysterious secrets of the grave. Here the victor and vanquished, side by side, Sleep in dreamless rest, Kings and Queens in life, Battling for power, all conquered by tyrant Death, Whose universal edict, irrevocable, Levels Prince and Peasant, in impalpable dust. Crowns to-day, coffins to-morrow, with monuments Mossed over, letter-cracked, undecipherable As the mummied remains of Egyptian Kings. Vain, vain, are all the monuments of man, The greatest only live a little span; We strut and shine our passing day, and then-- Depart from all the haunts of living men, With only Hope to light us on the way Where billions passed beneath the silent clay; And, none have yet returned to tell us where We'll bivouac beyond this world of care; And these dumb mouths, with ghostly spirits near Will not express a word into mine ear, Or tell me when I leave this sinning sod If I shall be transfigured with my God!_ In September, 1592, the second play of Shakspere, "Love's Labor's Lost," was given at the Blackfriars, to a fine audience. He took the characters of the play from a French novel, based on an Italian plot, and wove around the story a lot of glittering talk to please the lords and ladies who listened to the silly gabble of their prototypes.