Thou cullionly dream stopp'r!
The plague-sore'd rabblement didst, with stinking breath, fall a-shouting.
On Twitter brought they news that my playe of fair jest
be intolerable curst, a general offense of #sexistshakespeare.
They shriek'd that Kate, though her scolding tongue
shook the fair buds in Padua with irksome brawling,
should be boarded by no man nor taken him between her legs.
With chapped fingers they called me a most loathsome devil
and The Globe, with weak straw, serv'd their base matter
and didst banish my work and render'd me a pauper.
Tho they be a lump of foul deformity
with cold and empty veins where no blood dwells,
I sought Disney's counsel, most inhuman and unnatural.
Shar'd they with me their strange intelligence,
and upon skinny lips charg'd me with a missive.
'If thou would have it that thy judgement be undone
And to be no more condemn'd a villain and knave,
don you a bold suit of mirth and another arrow shoot.
This thou must do and call it a reboot.'
In outward honour for an inward toil
and for unfelt imagination, I labour'd through hours.
Days were drawn out and my sorrow broke seasons
for a manner to choke a gibing spirit,
whose influence is begot of that loose grace,
that they shall find me empty of fault,
Right joyful of my reformation now claim'd
through the taming of one more often blam'd.
In a house fair but white as milk, I lay my scene
yet tended by a tyranny with hands unclean.
Never hung poison on a fouler toad,
And his ministers of hell with hatred oer'flow'd.
Reknown'd in Padua for his deceitful tongue,
and fat-witted desires to remain young,
his skin is laced with a most dreadful hue
of tawny orange, true minds think untrue.
Yet a fair strong-framed maiden with an ample bosom
mind; industrious, most learned and advised,
shall take this stuffed cloak-bag of guts,
this roasted ox with a pate of rotted nuts,
And unsex him, lance his boils with remorse,
from his crown to his toe 'til justice run coarse.
With uncommon spirits, then shall she jump
And go her way, as she hast tam'd a curst Trump.
My words numb'r three score and 22 thousand.
And tho time and manners have judg'd me mute,
I once was true fix'd and unshaked of motion.
Stages were painted with my unnumber'd sparks,
They were all fire and every one dids't shine.
Thou art but a threadbare juggler of wisdom
and there’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune.
If you should spurn me like a mouldy rogue,
I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron,
That you shall think Oprah is come from hell.
Blessed be the one that acquires my lines
And cursed be they who doth not incline.
Peace, out.
William Shakespeare
'
