SHAKSPEARE

Shakspeare, as all of us have read,

Once asked: “What's in a name?”

An alias for the rose, he said,

Would make it smell the same.

But Shakspeare was so frivolous —

Excuse us if we say

That it has always seemed to us

His work was mostly play.

As “Shaxpere,” “Shakspere,” “Shaikspeare,” too,

His signature is found;

His autographs are much too few

To be passed all around.

This shows the cumulative worth

Of honest, solid fame;

The bidders come from all the earth

To buy his misspelled name.

He dramatized the thrilling scene

Where Caesar met his end,

Where Casca, hungry, lank and lean,

And Brutus, Caesar's friend,

Stabbed swiftly with their daggers bright

When Julius came in reach —

Then Antony, thrilled at the sight,

Arose and made a speech.

No chorus girls were in his shows;

In them no “social queens”

Were given princely wage to pose

And dignify the scenes.

But there be those who say there are

Odd facts that can n't be passed:

For instance, oft we see a star

With ciphers in the cast —

And this leads many to declare

That Bacon wrote the shows;

A cryptic secret hidden there

They say they will disclose.

It may be that each drama hoards

A Bacon cryptogram,

For often, proud upon the boards

There struts and strides a ham.