Happy Birthday, William

Playwright, it is thus: thou alone hath ravished
Our mistress Language, though we all rehearsed
Our parts in her; thou alone hath lavished
Such finery upon her, as would make a rich purse
Of a poor man's ear, and thus hung,
Has so won her to favour with thy trusted pen,
That she, once lost, is now forever won
And no man living need write again.

Thou art poet of the thundering mind
Of the wit's lightning and the storms of woe -
The very weather of our art. We come behind,
Our hearts are wings, beating in thy shadow,
Lifted on thy winds, our voices are small.
Drenched in thy rain, we are not ashamed to fall.

William Shakespeare

Born (supposedly): 23rd April, 1564