Said the Boy to the Book-Loving Maiden

Said the boy to the book-loving maiden:
“Hey, how is your Shakespeare doing?”
Up from The Tempest looked the young girl,
And said to the boy:

“My Shakespeare is a thespian.
He rattles off sonnets better than most,
But those same lovely poems
Hath caressed the willing ears of other maidens, compromised,
And won their hearts and roses, too.

“My Shakespeare is a thespian,
A liar, and a cheat.
His forked tongue speaks of love devout,
But his kisses are dry and lack a fire's passion --
Why! a crow is more lyric than that!

“My Shakespeare is a thespian.
I'm all but done with his type.
My Shakespeare is a thespian,
Dull, brainless, and untrue.
Now, prithee, be away with you.”

Then continued she upon the player's play.
Minutes passed before the foolish boy could speak,
And when he did, could muster he only
A very blown, “I'm sorry that I asked.”

The maiden did then look upon the boy's stunned face,
All wide-eyed and slack-jawed,
And when she did, could not but laugh,
To see Will Shakespeare so lost for words.