Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth; turn melancholy forth to funerals. The pale companion is not for our pomp.
Hours upon hours have spent I, with books of olde. Learning the manner in which they speak.
There are those who believe that only the English may speak and write in English. Though I must say I am a pale (more like, brown) substitute for a red-faced Briton, given enough time and space, well-fashioned can the work be.
For an audience, my scribblings were. And o lamentable fate! A dull peanut gallery my words were sung to. Hast now I found a Royal box to play my merrie-making diversions?
Would they even know the difference?
It matters not. I would know, and that is more than reason enough. My audience is myself. The box and the Gods am I.
