Well I do love this poem and this idea came to me so I hope it isn't too bad. This is dedicated to all my reviewers but in particular to The Alternative Source who always seems to review all my stories and gives me excellent feedback.

Also I honestly did my homework on this. There should be no problems with the time I chose the Doctor to visit. The Globe Theater. Apparently the lease ran out in 1597 but Peter Street managed to tear the old theater down and rebuild it into the Globe. In 1613 the Globe caught fire and burned to the ground when a canon fired during a performance of Henry VIII, igniting the thatched roof.


He strolled slowly around the controls of the Tardis, his hand buried in his pocket, clutching a crumpled piece of parchment.

Alone and uncertain what to do next he had gone back in time to a random era. His mind had been filled with thoughts of Donna and fresh unwanted memories of Rose kissing someone who was him and yet not him.

He had been surprised when he had stepped through the doors to find himself in 1602. And not only that he had literally parked the Tardis unknowingly next to the Globe Theater.

He had honestly been shocked. When he set coordinates he only occasionally ended up visiting a place he had seen before. And rarely was it within a time frame where he could actually talk with people he had met before.

Walking into the theater he had caught the crew in the middle of a rehearsal for what he recognized immediately as Hamlet. Standing near the back of the theater in the shadow of the stands he had watched the rehearsal and softly spoke some of the lines aloud to himself, in perfect harmony and timing with the actors.

He was trying to bury himself in the words. Lose himself, even if just for a moment, to the rhythm and meaning of the fluid lines filled with sparkling words. What had the Karrionites called them? Glittering? Yes, glittering words that had only just begun in this time.

Of course towards the end of the performance Shakespeare had spotted him, while in the middle of telling one of the men to project his voice more.

He had been delighted, immediately leaving the cast to themselves to rehearse, he had ushered him into the inn he was still staying at. The same room he had last stood in with Martha.

Reluctantly he had sat down, already wishing for the quiet confines of the Tardis to surround him.

" So then, Doctor, where has your lovely dark companion gone to?"

His eyes had flicked around the room, as though she would step out of the shadows at his inquiry.

" Gone," he had replied, trying to keep the strain from his voice.

William's eyes had immediately flashed to his face taking in his expression.

"Something has happened." It was not a question.

" Yes."

Will had leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. Blowing out a deep breath he rummaged in a drawer drawing out a parchment and quill.

"Alright let's hear it then, Doctor. What happened?"

His eyes sharping at the sight of the quill poised over the paper he shook his head, gazing sternly at Shakespeare.


Undeterred, William leaned back once more, grinning.

"Come now Doctor. We both know that you have come here because you have a story to tell. So tell it."

He considered his words for a moment. Yes, perhaps he had come here, well not here precisely but anywhere, to tell his story. Even as a Time Lord there were just some things that got to be too much.

"All right, but you are not to write a word of this down. I mean it."

Shakespeare nodded his agreement, leaning forward and clasping his hands together he rested his lips on them to hide his smile.

Hearing the ghost of Rose's words floating back to him he thought about where to begin.

But the Doctor's still you.

He opened his mouth and started talking.


Despite his warning after a few sentences William had picked up his quill, furiously scribbling on the parchment, his expression one of great seriousness. Throughout his tale he had heard the constant scratching of the quill, background music to his story.

He spared nothing, explaining different terms and words when he saw that Shakespeare was confused. He told him of how he had wrecked Martha's life and she had left him, staying behind to help her family heal.

He told him of Donna, whose fiery personality had always helped to brighten his day. Told him of having to wipe her memory of everything they had done.

And she had always thought she was nothing special. Now she would never know any different.

But mostly he told him of Rose. Sweet, kind, helpful Rose. Of how they first met and how she had made him a better person. Of when he regenerated( Shakespeare shook his head in wonder at hearing him explain the process) and still she stayed with him, helping him. Of when he had stood with her on a cold beach in a parallel world and she had said she loved him. Of leaving her behind with a perfect, half-human replica of himself.

By the end he had felt more terrible than before. The wounds seemed much fresher in his mind and he got up, immediately wishing to leave. Seeing his distress William had stood up, and smiling sadly at his friend, shook his hand, handing him the piece of parchment he had been scribbling on.

Pausing near the monitor he pulled the parchment from his pocket and began to read.

I wish you better luck in future and the past wherever you may be, Doctor. I dedicate this to the lady who inspired it, your lovely Rose.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

He smiled as he read the line. How was Shakespeare to know that he had already read this one?

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;

He remembered her smile. Her blinding white smile she gave just for him. And when she was teasing him the tip of her tongue would poke out between her teeth.

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;

He thought of her skin. The slightly tanned smooth expanse of it. How when they were running or hugging he would feel the silky texture of it and a warmth would fill him at her touch. And he would always smile.

If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head.

He laughed a little at that. He had never told Shakespeare exactly what Rose had looked like had he? He had only told him what she was like. How naïve she was when they first met. How caring she was when he needed her. How intuitive she was when he had a problem solving a puzzle.

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,

But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

His grin grew wider when he read the roses bit.

And in some perfumes is there more delight

than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

He remembered the time Rose had lost her toothbrush and had whined for over an hour before he reluctantly went to search for it, her smiling smugly and tagging along behind him. She had said that he knew where everything in the Tardis was ( he had snorted at that) and that he would be able to find it.

And he had.

Under his own bed for some reason, though she had laughed at his expression when he found it.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know

That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

He didn't think there was a sound more comforting to him than Rose's voice had been.

I grant I never saw a goddess go;

He knew, more so than anyone, that Rose was not perfect. Often, after an adventure, her hair would be a tangled mess. Usually after running for their lives her skin, especially on her face, would be red and splotchy as she panted to regain her breath. Her lipstick would be smeared from having nibbled at her bottom lip nervously. Her eyes would be wide and over excited. Her clothes usually ended up dirty.

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And there were species he knew of that were beautiful to an almost painful degree. Women he knew of that lived on more impressive places than Earth. They had velvet-like skin and perfect wide eyes that sparkled with color. Their hair was always straight and shiny, flowing around them. Their walks were graceful and fluid. They had perfect hourglass figures and more intelligence than most.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

As any she belied with false compare.

He smiled softly as he folded the parchment gently and slid it into the pocket of his tan coat.

He walked around the controls, his hearts feeling a little lighter than before, his dark melancholy mood dispersing somewhat.

No his Rose was not perfect by any means.

And he loved her all the more for it.


Well I've finished another one. Yay.^^ I was in my English class and my teacher mentioned this poem. Instead of actually paying attention for the rest of the class I just sat there thinking of the Doctor and Rose and I thought, you know, what if this poem was a gift from Shakespeare to the Doctor? I mean the Doctor never mentioned Rose to him, so accidentally visiting him again when he's at an all time emotional low he tells him of her. And, as he seemed to be in the episode The Shakespeare Code, he's inspired by his tale and writes this poem. Just a random thought really but it is one of my favorite poems.

Song I was listening to: Don't Stop Me Now by Queen