"Despite the fanciful ruminations of nineteenth-century biographers, there is no reason to suppose that William Shakespeare, the glover's son of Stratford, who was ten years their senior, would have felt at home in this circle of younger sons and declasse gentry, but Jonson clearly did."
My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great but disproportioned Muses,
For if I thought my judgement were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe’s mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I would not seek
For names; but call forth thundering Aeschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
I should probably not point out that this particular poem, despite its mention of Shakespeare as poet and Shakespeare as actor, is one of the ones that Oxfordians like to use to establish Edward de Vere's alleged claim on the plays.
But I cut my foot earlier, and I'm in a crappy mood.