Act I, Scene 107

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• Shakespeare. Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
  Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
  Can yet the lease of my true love control,
  Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
  The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured 1490
  And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
  Incertainties now crown themselves assured
  And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
  Now with the drops of this most balmy time
  My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, 1495
  Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
  While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
  And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
  When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.