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For hundreds of years the world has looked upon the unadorned stone lying flat over the dust of William Shakspeare, and read the epitaph written by himself: "Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare To dig the dust enclosed here; Bleste be ye man yt spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones." Under such anathema the body has slept securely.

And in the sad irony of fate, the broad stone that covered his tomb now an object of veneration to the thousands that yearly visit the little church was inscribed as follows: Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare To dig the dust enclosed heare; Bleste be the man that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.

Brady and make her let his things alone: "Good friend for Iesus sake forbeare To digg ye dust encloased heare Bleste be ye man yt spares the stones And curst be he yt moves my bones." "Wait, my good Mrs. Brady! What is that you are throwing away?" "Nawthin' but a bit o' blue paaperr, Profissorr. To be shure there's a schrap o' writin' on the back.

She had instead to study the windows, which she always liked to do in church; and she found herself repeating the lines on the tomb, which she had long known: "Good friend, for Jesus sake forbeare To digg the dust enclosed heare: Bleste be ye man Yt spares these stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones."

Upon a slab over the grave is carved: "Good frend, for Jesus' sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare; Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones." And so our greatest poet lies not beneath the great arch of Westminster but in the quiet church of the little country town in which he was born.

Francis Gastrell!" "Perhaps," said Hester, "there is a mistake in the verses in the church. Perhaps they ought to be: "'Bleste be ye man yt spares these bones, And curst be he yt moves my stones. That would mean the Rev. Francis Gastrell." "I hope so," said Mr. Imber. "It's a very good idea. But why do you like Shakespeare so?" "He's so wonderful," said Hester.