"Would he had blotted a thousand [lines]!”— Ben Jonson
(April 23, 1616. A prosperous house in Stratford. William Shakespeare is surrounded by his wife, two daughters, and their husbands.)
Shakespeare: Just think of it! For the price of three pairs of glasses, I could get a round-trip wagon ride to Upton Snodsbury. On the other hand, for the price of a round-trip wagon ride to Upton Snodsbury, I could buy three pairs of glasses. Either way, somebody’s fleecing me. Anyway, listen to this:
(Puts on new spectacles, reads from an ink-blotted parchment.)
Good frend for Iesvs sake forbeare,
To digg the dvst encloased heare.
Bleste be ye man that spares thes stones,
And cvrst be he that moves my bones.
Now, that’s a perfectly fine piece of poetry. I don’t see why Jonson and Drayton found anything wrong with it.
Thomas Quiney: Because it’s pedestrian doggerel, maybe?
Shakespeare: I pegged you for a filthy swine when my daughter was excommunicated for marrying you during Lent. I hope you’re not expecting anything from me in my will, because I’m leaving you one giant goose egg.
Judith: That’s just not fair, Dad. Susanna and John get everything, and I’m left with a dented pewter bowl.
Shakespeare: A dented SILVER bowl!
Judith: Big deal.
Anne: I don’t know why you children are squabbling. I’m his wife, yet all I get is the second-best bed. And THAT was an afterthought.
John Hall: But why three pairs of glasses?
Susanna: I think your piece of poetry is simply marvelous, Dad.
Judith: You would.
Quiney: Just don’t be too sure someone doesn’t move your sacred bones for a few extra pesos.
Shakespeare: Then God’s curse be upon you!
Hall: Thomas raises an interesting point. Are we talking quid or are we talking Euros or what are we talking? How does the EU affect our whole monetary system?
Susanna: I think your gravestone curse is first-rate. On a par with Dr. Suess or Shel Silverstein, and I don’t toss those names around lightly.
Anne: Both are highly underrated. Such fetching verse. Particularly Where the Sidewalk En…
Shakespeare: Put a sock in it, Anne.
Judith: But what is going to happen to all your documents, such as the plays, the sonnets, and all the correspondence, between you and Southampton, for instance, y’know, posthumously?
Shakespeare: They’ll be preserved in a climate-controlled storage unit in London. Future generations will have no doubt about my authorship unless they’re destroyed in some catastrophe, say, a Great Fire in 1666 or a Nazi Blitz in 1940.
Quiney: Or unless somebody filches them for spite.
Shakespeare: Somebody isn’t going to know the address.
Quiney: Somebody could easily wheedle it out of John Hall.
Anne: You could use these lines from Cymbeline--
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Shakespeare (beaming): Those are quite good. No wonder Ben Jonson calls me the Sweet Swan of Stratford.
Quiney: If you like being compared to a ragged specimen of water fowl.
Judith: Better that than a stringy segment of plant life. Everyone in Warwickshire knows that a “golden lad” is a dandelion.
Shakespeare: Judith, you wouldn’t know a metaphor if it crashed like a meteor into the house. Hmm. That’s a simile.
Judith: I know that a “chimney sweeper” is also a dandelion, old and dried out. Susanna and I blew them away for fun when we were kiddos.
Hall: I thought a chimney sweeper swept chimneys. I don’t think Dad would want to be compared to a chimney sweep. Rough, dirty work.
Quiney: And he’s too fat to climb up a chimney.
Anne: So, as usual, my proposal is ignored.
Hall: It just occurred to me… Isn’t “golden lad” another name for a dandelion?
Shakespeare: Well, enough of these familial pleasantries, and I express that with no sincerity whatsoever. I’m off to a merry meeting with Jonson and Drayton. I certainly hope my nearest and dearest— that’s you, Susanna, by the way— offers a few prayers that I don’t drink too hard, contract a fever, and die on my birthday.
Susanna: Oh, best of fathers, should I say Catholic prayers or Protestant prayers? Religion has become so confusing.
Shakespeare: Catholic ones, but don’t tell anybody.
(Shakespeare exits with a flourish of his cape.)
Quiney: No, we wouldn’t want Susanna arrested. Judith, ring up the Bishop of London. Ask him if Newgate Prison has room for one more heretic. Say, did you remember to spike your dad’s Malmsey with that hemlock?
(April 23, 1616. A prosperous house in Stratford. William Shakespeare is surrounded by his wife, two daughters, and their husbands.)
Shakespeare: Just think of it! For the price of three pairs of glasses, I could get a round-trip wagon ride to Upton Snodsbury. On the other hand, for the price of a round-trip wagon ride to Upton Snodsbury, I could buy three pairs of glasses. Either way, somebody’s fleecing me. Anyway, listen to this:
(Puts on new spectacles, reads from an ink-blotted parchment.)
Good frend for Iesvs sake forbeare,
To digg the dvst encloased heare.
Bleste be ye man that spares thes stones,
And cvrst be he that moves my bones.
Now, that’s a perfectly fine piece of poetry. I don’t see why Jonson and Drayton found anything wrong with it.
Thomas Quiney: Because it’s pedestrian doggerel, maybe?
Shakespeare: I pegged you for a filthy swine when my daughter was excommunicated for marrying you during Lent. I hope you’re not expecting anything from me in my will, because I’m leaving you one giant goose egg.
Judith: That’s just not fair, Dad. Susanna and John get everything, and I’m left with a dented pewter bowl.
Shakespeare: A dented SILVER bowl!
Judith: Big deal.
Anne: I don’t know why you children are squabbling. I’m his wife, yet all I get is the second-best bed. And THAT was an afterthought.
John Hall: But why three pairs of glasses?
Susanna: I think your piece of poetry is simply marvelous, Dad.
Judith: You would.
Quiney: Just don’t be too sure someone doesn’t move your sacred bones for a few extra pesos.
Shakespeare: Then God’s curse be upon you!
Hall: Thomas raises an interesting point. Are we talking quid or are we talking Euros or what are we talking? How does the EU affect our whole monetary system?
Susanna: I think your gravestone curse is first-rate. On a par with Dr. Suess or Shel Silverstein, and I don’t toss those names around lightly.
Anne: Both are highly underrated. Such fetching verse. Particularly Where the Sidewalk En…
Shakespeare: Put a sock in it, Anne.
Judith: But what is going to happen to all your documents, such as the plays, the sonnets, and all the correspondence, between you and Southampton, for instance, y’know, posthumously?
Shakespeare: They’ll be preserved in a climate-controlled storage unit in London. Future generations will have no doubt about my authorship unless they’re destroyed in some catastrophe, say, a Great Fire in 1666 or a Nazi Blitz in 1940.
Quiney: Or unless somebody filches them for spite.
Shakespeare: Somebody isn’t going to know the address.
Quiney: Somebody could easily wheedle it out of John Hall.
Anne: You could use these lines from Cymbeline--
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Shakespeare (beaming): Those are quite good. No wonder Ben Jonson calls me the Sweet Swan of Stratford.
Quiney: If you like being compared to a ragged specimen of water fowl.
Judith: Better that than a stringy segment of plant life. Everyone in Warwickshire knows that a “golden lad” is a dandelion.
Shakespeare: Judith, you wouldn’t know a metaphor if it crashed like a meteor into the house. Hmm. That’s a simile.
Judith: I know that a “chimney sweeper” is also a dandelion, old and dried out. Susanna and I blew them away for fun when we were kiddos.
Hall: I thought a chimney sweeper swept chimneys. I don’t think Dad would want to be compared to a chimney sweep. Rough, dirty work.
Quiney: And he’s too fat to climb up a chimney.
Anne: So, as usual, my proposal is ignored.
Hall: It just occurred to me… Isn’t “golden lad” another name for a dandelion?
Shakespeare: Well, enough of these familial pleasantries, and I express that with no sincerity whatsoever. I’m off to a merry meeting with Jonson and Drayton. I certainly hope my nearest and dearest— that’s you, Susanna, by the way— offers a few prayers that I don’t drink too hard, contract a fever, and die on my birthday.
Susanna: Oh, best of fathers, should I say Catholic prayers or Protestant prayers? Religion has become so confusing.
Shakespeare: Catholic ones, but don’t tell anybody.
(Shakespeare exits with a flourish of his cape.)
Quiney: No, we wouldn’t want Susanna arrested. Judith, ring up the Bishop of London. Ask him if Newgate Prison has room for one more heretic. Say, did you remember to spike your dad’s Malmsey with that hemlock?