O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong
music in the soul may be! What, and wherein
it doth exist, This light, this
glory, this fair luminous mist, This beautiful and
pure, heart, ask, me, What, strong, music, soul, may
What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
What, needs, Shakespeare, honoured, bones, labor, age, pild, stones
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