Thursday, May 15, 2008

Shakespeare, Texted

Welcome to "The Gods Art Bored," my ladies and lords!

Hark! What light from yonder window breaks? It is the computer, upon which doth fair Spare send missives to her CD-Romeo! But soft, a moment. A waxen paleness spreads 'cross the cheek of fair Spare. She hath texted harsh words to CD-Romeo. And he, with hiss of despair, hath severed the ties that bind himself to the Spare.

Out staggers fair Spare from the computer's lair, full cursing herself and rending her hair.

From sunrise to sunset, Spare mourns and grieves. CD-Romeo wisheth not to seek her favour anon. Spare doth laugh with hollow shallowness. CD-Romeo doth tread the thoroughfares with his mates. Shall never the young loves resolve their dispute?

Oh, but the play's the thing with which we capture the ... emmm .... something something something. (I forget how it goes.)

O hark ye to the Snobville Middle School Spring Choir Concert! O see ye the wan Spare, bravely singing songs about growing too soon old, wiping the stray tear from the mournful eye! O witness CD-Romeo, all his customary bardic bravado drain'd, warbling with his buddies, yet lacking all mirth!

Has the moment come to summon th' apothecary?

(Exeunt choir.)

Offstage somewhere, confideth the Spare her woe to her friend, beginning to end. CD-Romeo, hiding behind a doorway, hears the strains of remorse, of course. He too feels the fool for having tossed away such a jewel, a fair damsel of little fortune but great wit and stunning beauty who, but for a mouthful of braces, could melt the heart of the dreaded Yeti.

They meet. Set it right. No more to fight. All again is right!

Don't you just love a happy ending?

O, alas and alack! The AIM button is blinking again! Out, out, foul application!


yellowdog granny said...

for sooth...the heart is mendeth..or something like that..

Big Tex said...

Shakespeare may be best known for his romances, but he was really good with the violence and mayhem, too, which is one of the things I love about him. Here's a passage from Henry V, Act III, Scene iii:

How yet resolves the governor of the town?
This is the latest parle we will admit;
Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves;
Or like to men proud of destruction
Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier,
A name that in my thoughts becomes me best,
If I begin the battery once again,
I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur
Till in her ashes she lie buried.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand shall range
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass
Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants.

What is it then to me, if impious war,
Array'd in flames like to the prince of fiends,
Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats
Enlink'd to waste and desolation?
What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand
Of hot and forcing violation?

What rein can hold licentious wickedness
When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil
As send precepts to the leviathan
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,
Take pity of your town and of your people,
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command;
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of heady murder, spoil and villany.
If not, why, in a moment look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;
Your fathers taken by the silver beards,
And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls,
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry
At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen.

What say you? will you yield, and this avoid,
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?

THE Michael said...


Raevyn said...

Oh the strain of teenage angst! "The s**t hath hiteth the fan...eth"

buddydon said...

nicely writ, yew wit!

Thalia said...

I love ya, Anne, but I am so very grateful you are not my mother. Poor Spare, to have her love life paraded all over the internets!

Anne Johnson said...

Yeah, it would be a bummer, if she only knew. But she doesn't read TGAB very often, and that's why I call her The Spare. Her real name is much more Shakespearean.

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