Talk Like Shakespeare Day – My Talents Waste, Indeed…

Ruby: Ginger?

Ginger: Anon!

Ruby: Anon?

Ginger: Good morrow, gentle Ruby, how has the state of day been ere found?

Ruby: I take it you know it’s Shakespeare’s assumed birthday today?

Ginger: Aye, that I have. And pleased I am that you have noted it as well.

Ruby: It’s the one day a year I know you’ll smile in daylight.

Ginger: In daylight hours, when workings do not counter mine own glee.

Ruby: You have glee?

Ginger: Indeed I do – though, I’ll allow you this one secret in your ear. The glee I have is oft undone by strange passersby with lack of modesty or gentlemanly suit.

Ruby: Or because the sun shines too bright, or your coffee was too cold, or your closet did not bear forth great fruit. What am I saying?

Ginger: The language of the Bard does appear to appeal.

Ruby: I did not want to speak in iambic pentameter today!

Ginger: Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

Ruby: Ginger!

Ginger: If you but doubt your ability to turn a phrase in such a way that many find themselves confused – think on this and be but comforted. Although your speech may find itself arranged and bandied now, once my presence is removéd from your own, your ears will again be filled with a more common tongue of the day’s fashion.

Ruby: Your meaning is that this style of words is merely a contagion that you yourself do bear.

Ginger: Your face does not show relief at my words.

Ruby: And should it?

Ginger: One might assume it could.

Ruby: Wherefore should my face show relief? For years I have but heard you speak in pirate, prose and rage. I have maintained my own good sense, in accent and in language. But now, I fear, a crack in my immunity hath formed. I speak as you do, and what? Next week shall I begin to shade my eyes and grumble at the world? Shall I, too, find joy in grammar and in spelling? Or must I now fight, rebel against your companionship and beat off your ways with distance?

Ginger: Dear Rube, do not go on so!

Ruby: Why?

Ginger: You have oft forgot your language, chook.

Ruby: What sport do you make now? What’s chook?

Ginger: I admit that I have spoke in tongues varied and in jest. But, sweet, have you not slipped, in recent past? Or have you gone addle-pated due to hours long spent before a game?

Ruby: Game, what game?

Ginger: What game?

Ruby: Of what game do you speak?

Ginger: Rumpiolio, kash dobyet avashti!

Ruby: You speak the truth! I did begin that game of Spore and rarely now do leave’t.

Ginger: The crack within your language walls you put with time well-spent.

Ruby: My boyfriend would object at that ‘well-spent.’

Ginger: Let boyfriends do as boyfriends do, your heart will know the truth. O’er that game you know you’ve triumphed and now your knowledge lends.

Ruby: But now must I put distance between us so that I may speak more clear?

Ginger: Alas, my heart, it must be so.

Ruby: Then parting we must be, and tomorrow we shall speak.

Ginger: Till then, sweet lady. And blessings follow thee.

[Exeunt]

 

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