Sir William — Though ‘t be but pitiful mockery, I do In semblance of thy tongue address thee: Thou surely knowst my love for thee; All curses upon thy name uttered of late In heart of imprudence. Yet, hark — for others inquire in earnest: Sons and daughters of this, the Digital Age — They hath no remembrance of thee; or else decry thy “relevance” And hold as common relics thy work. But peace! Thy canon is great, ’tis certainty. Yet must I with pain admit: disquiet akin to this Have I voiced in weakness, among trusted allies: “Thousands of