Tue, Nov. 28th, 2006, 02:19 am
In my thoughts I have called for a feast; shall I too in waking?
My fellows, my friends, and my wife, come now and answer. Have we cause to celebrate? I know of little, yet in these times to lack a cause for mourning is reason great enough.
Then, I say: doth Illyria mourn aught? An should ye chorus 'nay,' and ye shall or I know not my countrymen, I will seek rejoicement and our pleasures.
The hart, the hart-- 'tis well, seems it, and not so well indeed that on th' heels of last we hunted, good Curio's return'd. When brought we out our party, 'twas in battle with surfeit of boredom, of idleness-- when now could it be none but celebratory, for what small court I kept is reunited.
Come, Curio. Come, Valentine. We are to prepare.
And good King Fortinbras, I humbly ask you: would you again with us to steed?
Tue, May. 9th, 2006, 03:47 am
*is lounging rather comfortably in a large chair, somewhere where he is easily seen yet not so easily disturbed without the intent of interaction; he has arranged himself into the perfect picture of a relaxing man-- no, of a relaxing Duke, handsome, bored, just waiting for something to catch his fancy*
Ah-- *he announces to the air with the wave of a hand* what day, what e'en. Is it not fair? 'Tis fair to me, or so seemed it once, afore the colours dulled. One shade lost, I ask 'what is one shade to me?' What was to the warrior Odysseus one shade, yet I-- *little idle chuckle* I am not he, nor my bride the faithful weaver, though faithful would she be.
*then suddenly, the flicker of another thought* Mayhap a hunt.
*he's in love with love-- that much is obvious-- but love is painful, isn't it? and that's what he's contemplating now, the pain that his love brings him; he knows it well, this pain, after so many years--*
*he sighs, a heavy, heartfelt sigh*