Epistle to Shakespeare

Why didst thou write to tease my weathered mind? In eighteen years on earth I searched to find, Translations for your works of tangled strife, Although thy quill ceased long before my life. Rhymes and riddles I scarcely understand, Yet read thy works tradition dost demand. O’re wrought with visions ravaging your head, I doubt you, Shakespeare, knew the words you bled. Hard toiling with thy voice of middle age, I know why actors dropped upon thy stage. Hamlet passed to end thy scripted madness, Romeo to flee from certain sadness; Still, the globe rejoices thy works to see, And in respect this sonnet mirrors thee.