Even so today, this Web of light in which we all are twined doth make the humble cat, without magic or other forbidden arts, to speak most feelingly. They be not, it seems, much learned in the Queen's English: indeed, I marvel that they be not better spoken, having lived so long amongst our kind. Howsomever, it seemeth some of these felines have turn'd scholar, and have taken to reading on my works. 'Tis a thing most strange, yet I confess me that these same cats have made me, indeed, to laugh out loud.

Gentles, I profess would not ill-convenience you in any manner. Howsomever, my hand is somewhat forc'd, and I must in sadness henceforth require registration of any who would comment. I know 'tis a gall, but trust me, against the vile flood of spam 'tis but a trifle. Moreover, I here swear that I shall ne'er abuse thy details, nor give them out to any other.

I remain your obedient servant, and my delight at your words is as great as ever it hath been. Let not this paltry registration come betwixt us, I pray!

It were a great temptation to say "MacBrown hath murther'd spin", but his great speech in which he doth promise henceforth to clothe his coming reign in russet yeas and honest kersey noes doth rather prompt the hearer to think "This same Chancellor doth protest too much." For is not this determination of his, to be as blunt as Kent in my King Lear, but spin by another name?

I know not the answer. I know but this: that in all my mortal years, and all the years since, I did never see a politician overmuch given to honesty. Nay, they but used it as it suited their purpose, and threw it off when it grew to be a clog: these great men could make even honesty a very whore. Or perchance a betray'd wife, since she is ever true though they be ne'er so false.

Remember ye, gentles, how I did begin the second part of my Henry IV?

Enter Rumour, painted with many tongues

Were I to write the story of these same two most potent ministers, I should make my prologue so:

Enter Spin, painted with many faces.

How think you, my masters? Would this play serve?

Much hath passed since last I writ here, and many are the souls new come to join me and mine where we sit and quaff the golden ale of immortality. One such sits by me now, and raiseth up a glass: that most learnéd sir, Professor Tony Nuttall, lately come from Oxford. Here is one who, in life, knew me right well, as his book doth attest (yet he names me Shakespeare The Thinker! Methinks he doth flatter overmuch.) A better companion ne'er drain'd a glass; a better tutor ne'er gave a lecture; a finer man ne'er walked the green earth. Now he tradeth tales with Kit Marlowe, Ben Jonson and me (and that odd lean parson, Laurence Sterne, who cometh here expressly to speak with him. A strange fellow, but holds his drink well enow.)

I wax maudlin, I know; 'tis a fault with poets, be they drunk or sober, dead or living. It shall be my round anon, and I must to the tapster: only this I say, in parting.

If thou wouldst know me, Reader, look
Not on this Blog, but on his Book.

Also, I see that honest Geoffrey Chaucer hath a blog! Truly his works have furnish'd me much excellent matter for playmaking; though Two Noble Kinsmen were something a damp squib, I care not. May Fortune speed thine abacus, gentle Geffrey, and smile on thy counting-book! May thy yearly tun of wine ne'er alter thy head for figures! May Flora and Zephyrus keep holiday in thy garden, and crown thy head with pied daisies! So saith Will.

Yet the coming of fresh May with her sweet airs brings to my thought the words of one of Chaucer's compeers: that goodly knight, Sir Thomas Malory. So seldom in all his tales doth he speak like to a poet, but here is just such matter: the more affecting that he may have writ it while a prisoner.

And thus it past on from Candylmas vntyl after Ester that the moneth of May was come, whan euery lusty herte begynneth to blosomme and to brynge forth fruyte. For lyke as herbes and trees bryngen forth fruyte and florysshen in May, in lyke wyse euery lusty herte that is in ony maner a louer spryngeth and floryssheth in lusty dedes. For it gyueth vnto al louers courage that lusty moneth of May in some thyng to constrayne hym to some maner of thyng more in that moneth than in ony other moneth for dyuerse causes. For thenne alle herbes and trees renewen a man and woman, and lyke wyse louers callen ageyne to their mynde old gentilnes and old seruyse and many kynde dedes were forgeten by neclygence. For lyke as wynter rasure doth alway a rase and deface grene somer, soo fareth it by vnstable loue in man and woman. For in many persons there is no stabylyte; for we may see al day, for a lytel blast of wynters rasure, anone we shalle deface and lay a parte true loue for lytel or noughte that cost moch thynge. This is no wysedome nor stabylyte, but it is feblenes of nature and grete disworshyp who someuer vsed this.

Therfore lyke as May moneth floreth and floryssheth in many gardyns, soo in lyke wyse lete euery man of worship florysshe his herte in this world, fyrst vnto god, and next vnto the ioye of them that he promysed his feythe vnto; for there was neuer worshypful man or worshypful woman but they loued one better than another, and worshyp in armes may neuer be foyled, but fyrst reserue the honour to god, and secondly the quarel must come of thy lady; and suche loue I calle vertuous loue.

But now adayes men can not loue seuen nyghte but they must haue alle their desyres, that loue may not endure by reason, for where they ben soone accorded and hasty hete, soone it keleth. Ryghte soo fareth loue now a dayes, soone hote, soone cold. This is noo stabylyte; but the old loue was not so. Men and wymmen coude loue to gyders seuen yeres, and no lycours lustes were bitwene them, and thenne was loue trouthe and feythfulnes; and loo in lyke wyse was vsed loue in kynge Arthurs dayes.

Wherfor I lyken loue nowadayes vnto somer and wynter, for lyke as the one is hote & the other cold, so fareth loue now a dayes. Therfore alle ye that be louers, calle vnto your remembraunce the moneth of May, lyke as dyd quene Gueneuer. For whome I make here a lytel mencyon that whyle she lyved she was a true louer, and therfor she had a good ende.

Spring's blessing on all true lovers, and to those who be not true, may they soon amend!

And yet those who took wounds or lost friends in London's sad slaughter these two days gone will give me the lie, if not a blow across the face, for saying so; this bout of adversity hath been bitter to them. Though the good wishes of a dead poet can be little worth at such a time, they are all I have to give; an thou be one so hurt or so bereft, my thoughts are with thee this day and all days.

And yet I do much wonder and admire at the way in which ugly actions such as this same do draw forth the undaunted mettle of these citizens who have been my hearers, my judges and my theme. The smell of powder will ne'er drive them into the tyrant's shadow: the spirit of London's dwellers hath been many times tried in the fire, and hath proven true gold indeed.

As witness these same words of one Ariel Dorfman, a true Ariel he and no Caliban. Be assur'd, sir, London loves thee as thou lovest her: well and knowingly.

But London is no green-sickness virgin, to be sent reeling from one blow to her nether regions. Nay, faith, the old dame is made of sterner stuff; beneath her cloud-capp'd towers she is stone and steel and solid English earth, and any dint in her honour will be soon made whole. Since my time, she hath endured frost, fire and plague; she hath known battle in her streets, and fire hath been dropt on her out of the air; and she suffer'd much in the Irish wars. She has weathered all, and she will weather this.

The words of London's Mayor and those of some of her citizens tell me I am not i'the wrong.

It's ironic, then, that part of the appeal of Shakespeare in the Park is its negligible demand on the brain. One need not know anything about Shakespeare going in, and, if my experience in Central Park Sunday night is any indication, one will not know much more going out. As I left As You Like It, I had only a sketchy grasp of Rosalind's big speech at the end, and a vague notion of the machinations of Duke Frederick's court, but I was suffering an unusual amount of self-approbation.

The gentleman then, forsooth, refers us to a study of the Park's public, done by learnéd doctors:

The study found that Shakespearean middlebrows had a few common features. One was a struggle to wrap their brains around the Bard's English. "Few admitted, directly, to difficulty with the language," the authors wrote. "Rather, they ascribed this problem to others." Another feature was an inability to recall even the basic rudiments of the plot shortly after the performance. (One "inveterate theatergoer" burbled, "At the end, they all turn out all right.") Finally, Shakespeare in the Park produced a gentle narcotizing effect, a contact high of "genuine pleasure," that made the middlebrows' intellectual powers fade into the moonlight.

Which maketh me inwardly to ask what this gentleman might have made of a day spent at the Globe, the Curtain or the Rose? Doubtless he would have censured both gentlemen and groundlings for paying more heed to one another (and to the bona robas near at hand) than to my words; for precious few of them went from the playhouse with my story all intact in their brains. Nay, if this Curtis found Master Papp's style overbroad, then Burbage in a royal passion, or Kempe in high fooling, must have brought the poor scribe near to death of an apoplexy.

All of which is to say: those players of mine that strut and sweat upon the greensward do so with no less honour than any who play within doors. 'Twould be a poor world indeed if there were but fine cakes and no honest barley bread; or sherris-wine alone with never a pot of small beer. Nay, when the day is hot 'tis your only drink; much merit in small beer. A cask of the same to Master Curtis, then, with my goodwill.

The inconstant Moon is at her full tomorrow eve, and like a scurvy politician, doth delight to seem greater than she is. If thou look'st upon her, thou wilt sure run lunatic: I have warn'd thee, and now leave thee to thine own midsummer madness.

Through all this time, none have known (though many have proclaim'd it) if Sir Throat was one person or many, whether he was politician, spy or courtier, traitor or true man. What must he have felt as the thirty years' war of scholars and pamphleteers rag'd about him, each man crying "'Twas he! nay, 'twas he," offering weighty arguments in abundance, proofs palpable that Deep Throat was this man or that, his name nigh drown'd in a Nile of ink? And all that time, he uttered never a word, nor his confederates neither.

May Time be kind to him! For I feel, forsooth, a certain kinship with this Master Throat.

In mine own well-lov'd London, meanwhiles, master Mark Rylance of mine own new-made Globe doth make preparation to hang up his buskins (and his farthingale, forsooth) and bid farewell. For these ten years past, he hath done most nobly by his stage and his cry of players, that the shade of Burbage look'd pale with envy and call'd for more drink. And deep we drank to the continued health of this most amiable master, and success to master Dromgoole who comes after. For master Rylance, though he leave our Globe, yet is he under our eye, on whichever stage he may tread; may good fortune follow him.

Then came in two fools together: Will Kempe and good Robert Armin, and ask'd of myself and Burbage: had we ta'en note of the two parts of my Henry IV, now in play at the National Theatre by the banks of grey Thames? "Or art thou, Will," spoke Kempe "so deep in thy cups that thou mindest not when new marvels are wrought upon thy halting verse?" And so we mark'd well the play. And sooth to speak, gentles, I have much to say in behalf of that Falstaff. Master Gambon doth body forth my fat knight as feelingly as ever I saw man do, that even Kempe wept true tears. Nor is this great round jewel without a princely setting: 'tis a formidable company, i'faith. Masters David Bradley and Matthew Macfadyen, that play the King and the wild Prince, are most brave players, as is David Harewood, whose Hotspur seems verily a born leader of men. And John Wood posesseth a marvellously temper'd voice, that his Justice Shallow giveth joy of heart to hear and see. Nay, in the whole company there is not one player ill-fitted or tedious: masters all, that it doth my long-dead heart good to see, and we dead players did drink their health in many a cup of sack.

For now comes in the sweet o'the year, when my works are played far and wide, on stage, street and greensward: and fair befall all that speak my words, their masters of play, and all those who serve in the tiring-houses! Amen, amen, say I.

Casting an eye over this great globe, I see much hath pass'd since last I writ here. In mine own land of Britain, those same scurvy politicians do invite the mob to choose between them; the mob seemeth heartily to wish a plague on all their houses. I hear, too, that the Prince of that realm is lately married; that Prince is a friend to players and to clowns, and knoweth my works right well. Long and merry be their days!

The Church of Rome, too, hath lost one head and gain'd another. In observance of the time, my fellow spirit Kit Marlowe and I did drink till our eyes cross'd and declaim scenes from Kit's Doctor Faustus.

Of these and other sundry events, and all that passes beneath the visiting moon, more shall be spoken anon, I promise thee.

Now it may soothly be said that Jack Donne, when he had got his Dean's robe on, was no friend to us players, for all his eldest daughter married one. Yet it meseemeth that this is no bad time to speak again these words from his oft-repeated Meditation XVII:

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Therefore, gentles, if reading o'er these words prompts you to think on those many thousands who have lost all in this last tempest, let me entreat you send what aid ye may to these same storm-wrack'd souls. And may the tempests of time have mercy on us all.

This is but one of many figurings-forth of the ancient Globe where my Lord Chamberlain's men did play with Burbage at their head: itself, alas, burnt to ashes in 1613 by a scurvy ill-fortuned cannon-shot in my Henry VIII. It was new-built the year after, and stood fast for threescore years more until an unkindness of Puritans destroy'd it. Now its offspring may be seen in Tokyo, Rome, and Texas; one in Berlin is a-building and one in Sweden built all of ice: a thing to wonder at.

My heart giveth much unto them all. Yet the Globe in London, which standeth near enough where stood the first, is mine especial care. At the first roll of the drums for Henry V some seven years since, methought I heard mine own heart to beat again. And in sooth, Master Rylance hath there assembled as hardy a cry of players as ever drank deep at the Mermaid, with a doughty crew of clothiers and masters of motion, dancing and musick. Their playing hath joy'd me much: their antick Macbeth of writhing music, their sad-and-merry Twelfth Night, their Richard Third play'd by a company of sprightly dames who out-Burbaged Burbage. These summer days, Measure for Measure, Romeo and Juliet and Much Ado About Nothing are to be seen, an you please.

Indeed, Master Rylance hath done me the office of a friend. Were I yet living, I might well desire some moments' privy converse with that same sweet-voiced gentleman, who giveth breath to my lines in such pretty halting tones. Dead as I am, he hath given me gifts beyond my spirit's conceiving.

But hear you, gentles: take not this my praise of one playhouse to mean that I have any the less love for all the rest. My Measure for Measure playeth now at the National Theatre as well as at the Globe: the one laid in these latter days, 'tother in mine own, and I am well pleas'd with both. Whether the players go in silks, denim or naught but skin, 'tis no matter, so it be well done. He (or she, forsooth) that speaketh my words on a stage shall be my brother in craft, be it in playhouse, schoolhouse or public-house, before a public throng'd as an army or scarce as honest lovers. Be thou Danish prince or hurried messenger, know thou this: thou art of mine own, and my blessing (frail thing as 'tis) is on thee. Go thou well.