Courtesy The New Yorker
Why bother? Most of the stuff’s in verse, difficult metaphors abound, word meanings have changed, toffs have confusing multi-titles and too many plays kick off with impenetrable and dullish background material. Not everyone’s keen on the cross-dressing either.
Modern-day WS poncers contrive to make you feel small. You’re better off watching cake-baking on telly. Cake-baking, forsooth! I never thought I’d say that.
Already you’re reaching for the mouse, convinced I'm a poncer. Perhaps I am but there’s fun to be had.
Working-class chat; hence a' instead of he:
A' saw a flea stick upon Bardolph's nose, and a' said it was a black soul burning in hell-fire
Boozing isn’t despised:
This same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that's no marvel, he drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys come to any proof.
More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs.
This dear, dear land (ie, England)
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out.
Most fellas would respond to the lady’s offer:
I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep.
Middle-aged man recalls Glastonbury:
I had rather be a kitten and cry mew
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers;
I' faith, his hair is of a good colour... and his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
There's more but no doubt your mind’s made up. People say that chap Grisham does a rollicking tale.