Sir
Hugh, of that family, had been Lord Mayor of London in 1492. He it was
who built New Place, the house in which the poet was living. He built
the stone bridge over Avon at Stratford, to take the place of a
worthless wooden structure. He founded exhibitions at Oxford and
Cambridge Universities. In short, Sir Hugh made the reputation of the
family for all time, and the scandal of Rookwood's residence in Clopton
House, which is within easy reach of Stratford, must have been a
considerable one.

There is a suggestion that the poet had not only given up his work, but
that the taint of landowning under the existing conditions had corrupted
him. As late as 1614 he was assisting one William Combe, a landowner and
son of his old friend John Combe--who had left him five pounds by
will--in an attempt to enclose the common lands round his estate at
Welcombe. In the early days the poet had been a foe of those who
attempted to rob the people, but it may be that by 1614 he was growing a
little intolerant of the Puritans on the corporation council, and quite
ready to vex them if he could. The Clerk to the Council followed
Shakespeare to London, apparently in order to discuss the case against
William Combe, and the corporation in council drew up a letter to the
poet, begging him to aid them against the guilty landowner; but
Shakespeare did not do so, and it was left for the London courts to
settle the matter in favour of the corporation, after much litigation
and long delays.

The opening days of 1616 saw the marriage of Judith Shakespeare, the
poet's daughter, born with little Hamnet who had died twenty years
before. Two months later the poet entertained Michael Drayton and Ben
Jonson at New Place. Some biographers say that the meeting was
associated with a drinking bout--there is no reason to believe that
either of his distinguished visitors would have been averse from one.
Others believe that the poet fell a victim to the prevailing lack of
sanitation; his house was at the corner of a very dirty lane. Whatever
the cause, there can be no doubt about the result. On the 23rd of April
1616, England's greatest dramatist died in the prime of life--he was
just fifty-two years of age. Two days later he was buried in Stratford
Church, near the north wall of the chancel. Fearful lest his bones
should be added to the grisly burden of the charnel-house close by, he
penned a curse upon those who should disturb his remains.

The corporation