Oh sure he could write the most influential and popular plays in history, but try getting him to write a coherent love letter to his mistress – forget it!

A recently discovered love letter from William Shakespeare to Gwendolyn Fairskin, the nanny of his children, has or “hath” (as we slide down the slippery slope of Olde English) sparked great controversy and set Shakespearian scholars scurrying to verify its authorship. Did the venerable Bard of Avon write this revealing mash note to Ms. Fairskin? Moreover, did he author any of the magnificent plays attributed to him? I leave that question to the Bureau of Weights and Measures or whoever authenticates these things. All I know is; me thinks tis true – that this steamy epistle is the work of Shakespeare in love.

And if its discovery wasn’t startling enough, manuscript antiquarians have discerned a note scrawled on the outside of the folded parchment believed to read: “Alloweth not David Hardiman of Reno-upon-Truckee any view upon this missive.” Well tough luck Willie. Your prescience will go unrewarded as I dutifully present your heartfelt spasms to an adoring audience of enthusiastic Shake-o-philes.

Posing as a calibration technician for the Bureau of Weights and Measures I’ve gained access to the randy letter and carefully translated it from its original Pig Latin (he wrote it in code in case it was intercepted) to the more familiar Olde English, thereby allowing it to exhibit the expected Shakespearian rhythm we’re all comfortable with. T’would be imprudent to translateth otherwise.

From the Desk of William Shakespeare

Stratford-upon-Avon

12^th of Never, 1592

My Dearest Gwendolyn,

Though my quill acquits me well as a play-wright, its feathery expressions elude me as a play-boy. However, in the time I’ve known thee my sweet, I’ve developed a great affinity for thy charms. You have awoken my dormant heart from slumber and as such have become my favorite chew toy.

And bye the bye let it be known in both Ipswich and Upper Darby that not only do I love thee with the ferocity of a summer tempest, but, more importantly, I hath learned to tolerate thou in measures more than ye shall ever know. My tolerance of thee knows no bounds, and I long to plunder the treasures of thine loins for a fortnight or a Sowing Month or some such denomination of time I can’t quite put my finger on. Rather it is thine hollows and nether regions upon which I’d like to put my finger. That dust make my blood boil so feverishly I no longer know my fortnights from my Harvest Moons, but perchance m’lady that’s just me britches talking.

Regal madam, it is you to whom the stars curtsy and the moon honors by never presenting you its backside. I do say, with strenuous emphasis, your porridge and your bosom doth each bringst me great comfort and supreme satisfaction. But it is in thine tender loin where my spiked groin yearns to join. Thine sooty neck and besmirched attire calls to me like the Sirens of myth – and when you are gone I do myth you so.

For when you are near, thine foul odor endears me to you like vermin drawn to a trash heap. And when you are absent I crave you like the maggot doth carrion. And although this putrid analogy doth break down and perhaps give you offence, do not let it give pause as to my ardor. O’glandular inamorata of mine, kindly remember it maketh no difference to me be your armpit hair more lush than mine. Having said that, I do commend to you the detoxifying effects of a good mead cleanse.

{Translator’s note: This next paragraph was somewhat illegible and its origins suspect as the word “Rustoleum“ appears at least twice.}

My liege in puffed bonnet, spackled beeswax and cinched waist; I shall never forget that evening spent lying athwart the hearth when you surrendered yourself to me unconditionally and your hair was singed to the scalp (my bad m’lady). That glorious evening whence I took you my prisoner of love, till my once brimming reservoir of scrotal magma hung in deflated, wrinkly glory upon its volcanic eruption. And in the afterglow, whilst soaking in the mucilage of our communal drippage, hunger pangs didth intercede and compelled us to repair to Blotto’s on the Green for a nosh of herring and myrrh, of which we partook with gluttonous avidity. It is those splendorous times which inoculate me from the grim cavalcade of London Town.   

You have placed your tryst in me and Lord knows what I’ve placed in you Gwendolyn. But tis not just our gambols which give rise to transcendence O’Gwennie of alabaster thighs. Tis also these magic herbs I procureth from the pagan’s mortar while at The Stonehenge Chemist Shoppe. The proprietors pray tell they do consider dropping the pe from shoppe in recognition of something called Modernity. Tis ill-advised I forewarned and bid them a foul frown against any such grammatical foolery. Bye the bye they obliged me and even went so far as to add a “Ye Olde” in front of Stonehenge Chemist Shoppe. Now everything is as it should be.         Boy these herbs can really get you off message – sorry Gwen.      

Hark my dear one. Forsooth me believes my present day help-mate Maria (who cheerfully doth provide ye drams of vinegar and monthly cloths of a hygienic nature) groweth suspicious of our nocturnal cavorting. Especially since our son Mercutio (whom she believes is her own) has your hunchback and webbed feet.

I think it wise he apply for the recent job opening as the sexton of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. T’wouldst be a perfect match – our hunchback at Notre Dame. We require his income. I canst maketh ends meet with these indecipherably wordy plays – made doubly indecipherable as the subtitle has yet been invented. At this rate I may have to branch out and write something I consider most vulgar – a musical. Yucketh!

Perchance someday my plays will be appreciated, but right now it’s a tight theater market what with the Bubonic Plague and the 100 Years War (is that thing ever going to end?). Also our current monarch (Sir Walter Raleigh-loving QE I) is a royal pain in my arse. As to Mercutio I think it best he learn a trade even if it be janitorial work. The French are very accepting of disabilities you know – just look at their last 3 Kings.  

In closing, although I do so appreciate Stratford-upon-Avon, my favorite place to be is Shakespeare-upon-Gwendolyn. So do be of good cheer dear Gwendolyn and remember: less porridge, more bosom. Tis a travesty I be so blunt, but real life eludes me. The play’s the thing.

With Forcemeat for All and Gruel for None,

Shakespeare in Love

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