There's much to admire here, but admiration doesn't necessarily bring much pleasure.
William Shakespeare, in his deathbed, recounts his life to his lawyer, Francis Collins, while ostensibly dictating his will (Will's will, get it?). His rambling and bawdy account is laced with quotations from his plays and sonnets (sometimes cleverly interwoven, sometimes heavy-handedly).
The trouble is: this has been done before. Robert Nye does it in "The Late Mr. Shakespeare", using an aged player as his unreliable mouthpiece. And the brilliant Anthony Burgess does it even better in "Nothing Like the Sun", where a lecture given by a drunken academic parallels Shakespeare's own descent into delirium.
Rush's novel, while vivid, told me little I didn't already know, save perhaps for speculations about the impact that the early death of Will's son Hamnet had on the man and his plays.
And then there's a dead-hand on every page, and it isn't Shakespeare's. It is that of the lawyer, Francis Collins: a two-dimensional glutton, whose quips wouldn't make it into a Carry On script. He sucks the poetry from every paragraph.