A Surfeit of Bard

Creative Writing by Wee Mousie

“Mr. Elgmont, may I please have my stage back?”

“Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” exclaimed the man at centre stage.

“Mr. Elgmont – Trevor,” the director began. “If you do not continue with the rehearsal, you will be in breach of contract.”

“Thou art not so unkind,” the actor sniffed, “as man's ingratitude.”

“This is ridiculous,” exclaimed the famous actress hovering in the wings. “If a performance is to take place, I must be allowed to rehearse.”

"Frailty," the Shakespearean rumbled, “thy name is woman!”

“Please, Trevor” the thespian’s agent soothed. “You know you don’t want the production to end in ruin, now do you?”

"Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt."

“What thunderbolt?” the producer inquired, nervously.

"Cowards die many times before their deaths,” the old man pronounced trenchantly, “the valiant ne’er taste of death but once."

“Oh, dear! I do wish we had hired Weston,” the producer wailed. “So what if he’s second rates? At least he is tractable.”

"Be not afraid of greatness,” the old man intoned. “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em."

“I refuse to work in this atmosphere!” wailed the actress. “I can’t go on! I can’t go on!”

“The lady,” the ancient thespian intoned, “doth protest too much, methinks.”

“Trevor! Trevor!” the actor’s agent implored. “What is it that you want from us?”

“Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog,” the elderly Shakespearian chanted “Adder's Fork, and blindworm sting, lizard's leg, and howlet’s wing. . . .”

“Perfect!” exclaimed the director, throwing his script to the stage with a bang.

“What a piece of work is man!” the thespian noted casually.

“Damnation!” the director cursed, kicking his script noisily across the stage.

“How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!”

“Bugger!” the director stamped his foot in vexation.

“In form and moving, how express and admirable!”

“Sonuvabitch!”

“In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god!”

“Fuck!”

“The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”

“Shit!”

“Man delights not me.”

“Oh, do shut up, Trevor!” the actress snapped.

“No, nor woman neither,” the old man continued.

“Take that bloody fool away,” the producer implored, chewing at his knuckle. “This rehearsal is over.”

"When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?"

“This is all your fault,” the Shakespearian actor’s agent pointed an accusing finger at the director.

"The quality of mercy is not strain'd,” the agent’s client answered.

“I vow,” the agent declared, “you’ll pay every penny of Trevor’s contract!”

“It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.”

“Screw you!” the director urged. “I’ll see you in court, first!”

“It is twice blest, it blesseth him that gives and him that takes."

“I told you that this would happen,” the agent insisted, “if you forced Trevor to accept simultaneous leads in productions of ‘Hamlet,’ ‘King Lear,’ ‘Richard III,’ ‘Julius Caesar’ and ‘The Tempest’ — not to mention that Scottish Play.”

"Et tu, Brute?"

“I predicted that the stress would be too much, that it would make any actor run mad?”

“My words fly up, my thoughts remain below,” the thespian’s voice echoed through the empty theatre, “Words without thoughts, ne’er to heaven go."

“But, did you listen?” the agent continued, glowering about the stage. “Of course not! Now see what you have done. This is all your fault. Trevor Elgmont – a national treasure – has suffered a Shakespearian embolism.”

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves. . . ."