castle, enjoying the sunny afternoon. He is posing for her, reciting
Marcus: Come to Albion, thou weedy, rough-hewn lout!
Efennama: Thou hast spoken well, my Lord. Pray, say on.
Marcus: For, the morrow's light doth break soon softly,
So blench thou not at wisdom's sufferance.
Efennama: 'Tis true, for England's land is luminance;
And low brow's babble makes for fool's fodder.
Marcus: Tell, dear Efennama, what malapert
reason brings thee to this palace of rheum?
Efennama: "But I, who never knew how to entreat,
Nor never needed that I should entreat,
Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep,
With oath kept waking and with brawling fed:
And that which spites me more than all these
wants, He does it under name of perfect love;
As who should say, if I should sleep or eat,
'Twere deadly sickness or else present death.
I prithee go and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food."1
Marcus: The prescribed remedy for thine hunger
sits in my hand, so glad am I to give't.
For pie's r's squaring is n'ere enough to
satisfy, but those whose minds rest upon
Descartes' durst vision make mirth like "Honey Pie".
Efennama: Relieve my suffering, and lay upon
me thy level-headed verbage's score.
Dear Lord, I can go no further: O,
I die for food! Here lie I down, and measure
out my grave. Farewell, kind Lord.
Marcus: Nothing attends a picnic more than mince,
so shall we fillest our bellies thus hence.
Combine 1/2 lb beef suet, chopped fine
4 cups seedless raisins are so divine;
2 cups dried currants will add needed zest,
1 cup coarsely chopped almonds to go next.
1/2 cup coarsely chopped candied citron
Something to hang our 1/2 cup figs upon;
1/2 cup chopped orange peel to soon follow,
And 1/4 cup chopped lemon peel on the morrow;
4 cups chopped apples will add the fibre,
Nothing's sweeter than 1 & 1/4 sugar
Spices notwithstanding, 1 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp allspice, 1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp cloves, 2 & 1/2 cups brandy
And in finale,1 cup dry sherry.
To be mixed together in thy largest bowl,
And sauteed in brandy, with sherry for soul.
In weeks of three we shall attend the mix,
In the lag, my eyes upon you transfix.
Effennama: My Lord, regail me with your riddles, pray.
Marcus: In battle I rage against wave and wind,
Strive against storm, dive down seeking
A strange homeland, shrouded by the sea.
In the grip of war, I am strong when still;
In battle-rush, rolled and ripped
In flight. Conspiring wind and wave
Would steal my treasure, strip my hold,
But I seize glory with a guardian tail
As the clutch of stones stands hard
Against my strength. Can you guess my name?
Effennama: Thy wisdom would preclude my meagre guess,
And you wouldst not be answered with reason.
Marcus: Do try, dear beauty.
Effennama: A flag.
Marcus: Merry, thy meed is meet to be named, and
so now give name to the very battle.
Effennama: Kind Sir, it was the Battle of Naseby
that set aright a nation's yearning for
Marcus: Thou ist my Bohemian Girl, forsooth.
Do me the honour of kissing my lips.
Effennama: Haply, you wouldst have me make of thee a
Cuckold for certain? For thou surely foins
a ballow for my occassion, dear heart.
Were it not for my own weakness of mind,
I wouldst surely lay no place of nonce for
thine meaty and lusty palter.
Marcus: You mistake the eager air of my Speech;
For it is indeed liberal with ruth.
Effennama: Perhaps Bermuda has kept this meaning
For its triangle hidden, from cogging
Greeks who wouldst as quickly make of it a
sport whose determinate manner would
surely daff every honourable woman
within its region. For love comprised of
a set of three vertices whose woof is
hardened, can only vouchsafe a vizard
of scathful deceipt.
Marcus: Is it your intention to shent me my
liberality of compassion? Thy
gaoler is a heavy mistress, indeed.
Can your eyes not look upon love's visage,
for the sake of love's true first kiss, and not
for the thorn hidden on the rose's branches?
Effennama: My Lord, thou hast worn me down in this game,
So I must surrender the match point to
thee, and prithee protect my foolish heart.
Life's meaning changes with each morrow,
and this day I must needs redeem its
implying. Our bendbradnes hast been much,
so now I bid thee good'night my kind Love.
1 Kate, in The Taming of the Shrew, IV, 3