In his own words

Over one thousand words I have exposed      
and fitted right champion to the tongue,      
note, some I ungraved, some, unretired,      
if asked  ' Who's hot-blood, metamorphized these?'      
     
Tell them, William Shakespeare, esquire      
(make strong hints as to my Unknightedness!)      
late of St Helen's parish, Bishopsgate,      
London, now home again, in my birthplace    
in our New Place, Stratford -upon-Avon.    
     
Once I had youth's Friday nights eagerness      
to belly forth to embrace employment    
of my pen's knife, in theatrical style,    
but hitherto my morning's of Monday's      
become drab, unrapt, lacking all lustre,  
mayhap it's these fifty-two winter's past?  
     
No doubt, as my name dwindles, some bandit      
all green-eyed, dauntless, will elbow me out.      
Though, I'll be unaware, I, asunder      
the self of me, engraved, inaudible,      
all my swaggering pageantry dwindled      
down to the finality of this, full stop.