The writings of Chat Qu’éspire

About four hundred years ago, William Shakespeare was born and died in the Aprils of two successive centuries. As I sit here putting the final touches to this post, it’s the last day of this year’s April; the first day of April is known as ‘All Fools’ Day’, and I’m a fool, so it all seems somehow appropriate (in my mind at least; YMMV).

Although I have more than a hundred draft posts at present, all of them require more effort than I can currently muster to bring up to what I would consider to be an acceptable standard to schedule for what’s become my regular Tuesday slot‡. As I’m somewhat at a loss, this feeble, disjointed wibblette (which, rather appropriately, is representative of my current mental state) will have to suffice.

PS May the fourth be with you on the morrow.

So turgid as we are, so dull to sense
Find we no time for any peace to pant,
Nor breathe at all, nor e’en consider
What might occur in strands afar remote.

Chat Qu’éspire AKA me (1960–)

So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to pant,
And breathe short-winded accents of new broils
To be commenced in strands afar remote.
No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood;
Nor more shall trenching war channel her fields,
Nor bruise her flowerets with the armed hoofs
Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,
Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven,
All of one nature, of one substance bred,
Did lately meet in the intestine shock
And furious close of civil butchery
Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks,
March all one way and be no more opposed
Against acquaintance, kindred and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,
As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,
Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross
We are impressed and engaged to fight,
Forthwith a power of English shall we levy;
Whose arms were moulded in their mothers’ womb
To chase these pagans in those holy fields
Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet
Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d
For our advantage on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose now is twelve month old,
And bootless ’tis to tell you we will go:
Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear
Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree
In forwarding this dear expedience.

King Henry’s monologue in Henry IV Part 1
by William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

H/T to Shake’s peer (AKA Doug Jacquier) for the inspiration.

‡ I’m very grateful to Bob Rich† for stepping in to fill the void with his guest post last week (one that I hope will be the first of many). If you, Dear Reader, should feel inclined to lend me a hand in a similar vein, please do check out my post Creating content collaboratively.

† As a gratwise gesture, I would like to direct your attention to a recent appeal by Bob for assistance with a book he’s working on. I would consider it a personal favour if you would follow this link to his post ‘Does this opening hook you?‘ – if you do, please let me know that you’ve done so to allow me to attempt to repay you in some way.