Tonight is not the first, nor pray the last 
that I have come to watch thee in a play.
And by these lines, and observations past,
I can but think I know thee in a way. 
As man is not but flesh, it isn’t merely
Hamlet on the stage; but thee, and Shakespeare--
each disposition writ, and in thee clearly,
each coward, monster, knave thou makest dear.
So deeply am I moved by thy devotion
and awe, that I would fain believe I love thee.
O, What a thing is art, that by emotion
one could see so much as I do of thee.
        And what a thing is fame, that we thus care,
        and ne’er lament when thou art unaware.

The End

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