A Mystery of Errors Read Online Free PDF
Author: Simon Hawke
tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited,
these
are the only men! Or at least," he added, pulling out a piece of paper and unfolding it, "so they themselves inform us, by virtue of this bill they post."
He passed the playbill to Smythe. "Tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical…" read Smythe, aloud. He raised his eyebrows. "They seem to have counted all the points of the dramatic compass."
"Save for bawdry and pederasty, and those points they doubtless count offstage. However, Tuck, old bean, we shall forgive them their trespasses if they forgive ours and enlist us among them."
Smythe glanced at him and shook his head, not certain whether he was more astonished or amused. "That remark verges either on blasphemy or slander, I am not sure which."
"Blasphemous slander, then. Or slanderous blasphemy. Or slanderous-blasphemous-tragical-comical-what-have-you. Either way, those are more the province of Christopher Marlowe than myself. I prefer to remain somewhat less controversial and contentious. 'Twill be easier to avoid prison that way. Damn me, I need a drink. Hold up a moment." He stopped in the middle of the road, leaning on his staff, and pulled out a small wineskin from underneath his cloak. He squeezed a stream into his mouth and didn't miss a drop.
"I should have thought you would have had enough last night," said Smythe, shaking his head at the thought of drinking wine so early in the day. The birds were barely even up.
"There is no such thing as 'enough,' my friend. Life is thirst and hunger, and then you die. So drink your fill while you yet live."
"That reminds me somewhat of what my Uncle Tom said. 'Life is short, so live it as you like it.' 'Twas his parting advice to me."
"Indeed," said the poet, nodding. "Your uncle is a wise man. Live life… as you like it. I must remember that. 'Tis pithy."
"Do you never feel the morning aftermath of drink, Will?"
"What? No, never. Well… Hardly ever. Hair 'o the dog, y'know. And experience. A veritable cornucopia of experience." He squeezed another stream of wine into his mouth.
"Veritas in vino?"
"Oh, dear me. Not again. Was I spouting poor man's Latin in my cups again last night?"
"A bit. I caught a little of it, but then I am no scholar."
"Tell me, for my memory of recent events seems somewhat hazy for some peculiar reason… last night, was I angry drunk or maudlin drunk?"
Smythe considered for a moment. "Somewhere in between, I'd say, with a little touch of each."
They started walking once again, keeping an easy pace. "Well, 'tis all right, I suppose," the poet said, with resignation. "I simply cannot stand it when I become unutterably maudlin. That is to say, I cannot stand hearing about it later. Howsoever, unlike my sweet Anne, at least you have the grace not to throw it up at me when I am sober."
"Belike you're the one who does the throwing up," said Smythe, grinning.
"Odds' blood, I did no such thing! A man who throws up his drink is naught but a profligate wastrel. If you are likely to throw it up, then at least have the good grace not to throw it down. Save it for a man who can hold onto it."
"Anne is your wife then?"
"Were we speaking of my wife?"
"You were, I think, just now."
"Ah. Careless of me. Remind me not to do it again."
"I shall make note of that. You do not love your wife?"
"Well…" The poet grimaced, wryly. "I love her well enough to tup her, I suppose. A dangerous bit of business, that. She is as fertile as a bloody alluvial plain. She swells with child merely at a sidelong glance."
"It seems to me that you would have to do some swelling of your own to aid in that," said Smythe, with a chuckle.
"You swine! You
dare
banter with me?" Shakespeare smiled, rising to the bait. The poet in him, Smythe saw with amusement, could not resist the challenge. "Aye, young Tuck, you prick me to the quick! And I, alas, have pricked too quickly. But 'tis hard to refrain from hardness at such a
these
are the only men! Or at least," he added, pulling out a piece of paper and unfolding it, "so they themselves inform us, by virtue of this bill they post."
He passed the playbill to Smythe. "Tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical…" read Smythe, aloud. He raised his eyebrows. "They seem to have counted all the points of the dramatic compass."
"Save for bawdry and pederasty, and those points they doubtless count offstage. However, Tuck, old bean, we shall forgive them their trespasses if they forgive ours and enlist us among them."
Smythe glanced at him and shook his head, not certain whether he was more astonished or amused. "That remark verges either on blasphemy or slander, I am not sure which."
"Blasphemous slander, then. Or slanderous blasphemy. Or slanderous-blasphemous-tragical-comical-what-have-you. Either way, those are more the province of Christopher Marlowe than myself. I prefer to remain somewhat less controversial and contentious. 'Twill be easier to avoid prison that way. Damn me, I need a drink. Hold up a moment." He stopped in the middle of the road, leaning on his staff, and pulled out a small wineskin from underneath his cloak. He squeezed a stream into his mouth and didn't miss a drop.
"I should have thought you would have had enough last night," said Smythe, shaking his head at the thought of drinking wine so early in the day. The birds were barely even up.
"There is no such thing as 'enough,' my friend. Life is thirst and hunger, and then you die. So drink your fill while you yet live."
"That reminds me somewhat of what my Uncle Tom said. 'Life is short, so live it as you like it.' 'Twas his parting advice to me."
"Indeed," said the poet, nodding. "Your uncle is a wise man. Live life… as you like it. I must remember that. 'Tis pithy."
"Do you never feel the morning aftermath of drink, Will?"
"What? No, never. Well… Hardly ever. Hair 'o the dog, y'know. And experience. A veritable cornucopia of experience." He squeezed another stream of wine into his mouth.
"Veritas in vino?"
"Oh, dear me. Not again. Was I spouting poor man's Latin in my cups again last night?"
"A bit. I caught a little of it, but then I am no scholar."
"Tell me, for my memory of recent events seems somewhat hazy for some peculiar reason… last night, was I angry drunk or maudlin drunk?"
Smythe considered for a moment. "Somewhere in between, I'd say, with a little touch of each."
They started walking once again, keeping an easy pace. "Well, 'tis all right, I suppose," the poet said, with resignation. "I simply cannot stand it when I become unutterably maudlin. That is to say, I cannot stand hearing about it later. Howsoever, unlike my sweet Anne, at least you have the grace not to throw it up at me when I am sober."
"Belike you're the one who does the throwing up," said Smythe, grinning.
"Odds' blood, I did no such thing! A man who throws up his drink is naught but a profligate wastrel. If you are likely to throw it up, then at least have the good grace not to throw it down. Save it for a man who can hold onto it."
"Anne is your wife then?"
"Were we speaking of my wife?"
"You were, I think, just now."
"Ah. Careless of me. Remind me not to do it again."
"I shall make note of that. You do not love your wife?"
"Well…" The poet grimaced, wryly. "I love her well enough to tup her, I suppose. A dangerous bit of business, that. She is as fertile as a bloody alluvial plain. She swells with child merely at a sidelong glance."
"It seems to me that you would have to do some swelling of your own to aid in that," said Smythe, with a chuckle.
"You swine! You
dare
banter with me?" Shakespeare smiled, rising to the bait. The poet in him, Smythe saw with amusement, could not resist the challenge. "Aye, young Tuck, you prick me to the quick! And I, alas, have pricked too quickly. But 'tis hard to refrain from hardness at such a
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