[Somehow I didn't post this on the 24th.] Wups, missed Shakespeare's 449th yesterday. I suppose (but I have not looked) that there is a Facebook page where I could stop by with a quick woo hoo. In lieu, I offer up a favorite sonnet, #138:
Afterthought: But maybe I didn't miss it. The choice of the 23d is, after all, merely conventional--we know he was baptized on the 26th, and we back-engineer from there. So, maybe happy birthday after all, Will.
When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told: Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.