When people tell a lie about something, they have to make up a bunch of lies to go with the first one.
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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.
Where dost thou careless lie,
Buried in ease and sloth?
Knowledge that sleeps doth die;
And this security, It is the common moth
That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys them both.
Wouldst thou hear what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die,
Which in life did harbor give
To more virtue than doth live.
If, at all, she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.