Brush up your Shakespeare
Today being Shakespeare's death day, and, by tradition, also his birthday, I can't resist to add one more post to the various others I've written in connection with the man and his works. Last year saw another Oxfordian volume published. Now, I'm not writing a scholarly essay about why I think the writer of the plays and the sonnets was the guy from Stratford-upon-Avon and not the Earl of Oxford, Francis Bacon or the various other candidates suggested in the course of four centuries. That's something far better done by other people. Instead, I'll use the opportunity of April being poetry month, post two of the lesser known Shakespearean sonnets and point out that no man not actually called Will(iam) would have gone for that endless series of sexual puns around his name (especially not men called Edward, Francis or Christopher):
Sonnet 135 Whoever hath thy wish, thou hast thy Will
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.
Sonnet 136 If thy soul check thee that I come so near
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me, for my name is Will.
For a more cerebral argument about Will Shakespeare from Stratford being William Shakespeare the writer, and also for a pretty funny Shakespeare appearance, see George Bernard Shaw's Shakes versus Shav, complete with foreword. In conclusion: happy death and birthday, bard! May you never stop bringing tourists to that house in Warwickshire, for really, it is pretty:
This entry was originally posted at http://selenak.dreamwidth.org/569517.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.
Sonnet 135 Whoever hath thy wish, thou hast thy Will
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.
Sonnet 136 If thy soul check thee that I come so near
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me, for my name is Will.
For a more cerebral argument about Will Shakespeare from Stratford being William Shakespeare the writer, and also for a pretty funny Shakespeare appearance, see George Bernard Shaw's Shakes versus Shav, complete with foreword. In conclusion: happy death and birthday, bard! May you never stop bringing tourists to that house in Warwickshire, for really, it is pretty:
This entry was originally posted at http://selenak.dreamwidth.org/569517.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.