Shakespeare Brings Home the Bacon

What you can do when you rearrange the world's greatest writer's words (besides embarrass him beyond the grave!)




SHAKESPEARE BRINGS HOME THE BACON
by
P.L. Ellars


“Good morrow, Master Shakespeare, I pray thee well?”
“Good dawning to thee my friend Albada, pray away.”
“In my perambulations and peregrinations this day I have had the good fortune and pleasure of coming across Master Bacon’s…”
“Master Bacon, joyfully, dost not have the same effect on me, Albada. Seldom cometh the better, eh?”
“Er, no, sir, I do not mean it in such a way. I was merely mentioning that I have this day, as I was saying, in my wanderings through the city, discovered at Master Libros’ Booke Shoppe and, glad indeed to have had my purse with me, was able to produce said amount required to purchase Master Bacon’s most recent and, therefore current, folios with which I may retire at some future point in time to peruse, at my leisure, with, may I be so bold as to say to thee without offense, Master Shakespeare, no small degree of joyful anticipation.”
“So, thou hast purchased Bacon regurgitations, eh, Albada?” inquires Shakespeare. “Well, happy man be his dole.”
“Well, yes, sir, but…”
“But me no buts, Albada, things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done, is done. Haves’t with thee? Say no and then I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. Say yes, and produce, and I shall say: This is a sorry sight.” says Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I have it here.”
And so Albada reaches into his doublet and pulls out Master Bacon’s most recent work and hands it to Shakespeare. Untying the ribbon, Shakespeare takes notice of the fine quality of paper used in printing.
“Well, Albada, Bacon has’t spared no expense in the production of his nothings. This surely must have cost more than a pound of flesh. ‘Tis soft indeed; soft words asleep on a soft bed. If you will excuse me, Albada, I feel a touch of nature; too much of a good thing last night at dinner.”
Shakespeare rises out of his chair and leaves the room taking Master Bacon’s folio with him.
“Where goest thou, sir?” inquires Albada.
“Away, but tarry you here, I am not infirm of purpose and shall not be long; for brevity is the soul of shit.”
“Take’st thou Master Bacon’s folio, sir?”
“Aye, I will peruse it and return anon.” and with that Shakespeare strides quickly out of the room.
Some five minutes later he returns.
“Ah, our revels are now ended. Here, Albada, here is thy Bacon. Wondrous soft it is. Tis such stuff as dreams are made on. It is a hit, a palpable hit, my friend.”
“But, Master Shakespeare, the frontspiece and dedication are missing. Hast thou forgotten it somewhere?”
“No, Albada, I have not. I have discovered a new use for Master Bacon’s folios. I found his work very absorbing; his frontspiece makes an excellent backpiece.”
“I do not follow you, sir, you talk in riddles.”
“Then, Albada, I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver. Master Bacon’s art is beneath me. Truly, his folios first moved and then impressed me; I was impressed with his art, deeply impressed. He hath made an impression on me. Oh, hell-kite, Albada, be comforted, as I have been, never have I removed more matter with less art at one fell swoop and swipe! Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more and I was finished with the job at hand! I must tell Master Bacon and congratulate him.”
“You used Master Bacon’s folio to… to… are you mad!?” Albada asks incredulously.
“Mad? By the Lord, fool, I am not mad. I am but mad North-Northwest. When the wind is Southerly, I know a hump from a handjob. O, my offense is rank; it smells to heaven, it hath the primal eldest curse upon’t, a critique to be sure. Master Bacon’s frontspiece and dedication now liest in the vasty deep and thus in the whirligig of time! Albada, you are thinking too precisely on the event. ‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed.”
“But…but… “ stammered Albada.
“BUT ME NO BUTS! I have told thee! Listen closely, Albada, and I shall explain: there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, my fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie. O, I am fortune’s fool not to seize this offered opportunity. If I act upon it, then the world is mine oyster which I with sword will open.”
“Offered opportunity, Master Shakespeare? I do not understand”. whimpers Albada.
“To make my fortune, Albada, to make my fortune! Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t. Master Bacon’s folios, as I have just discovered, are good for nothing but cleansing oneself. The people will use this to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. Why woulds’t anyone go back to the old or Turkish or Roman style, having once tried this! O, what men dare do! What men may do! What men daily do, not knowing what they do”!
“I am not sure, Master Sha… “
“O, Lord, what fools these mortals be. Albada, be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. My own fortunes fall in the latter three categories. You must away now for, coincidentally, I have this day a meeting with Master Bacon. Though I dote on his very absence, he shall be here shortly”.
“Master Shakespeare, I cannot believe that thou has used Master Bacon’s folio for such…”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Albada, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Expand thy mind! Get thee around it. Get thee over it! Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Still, it would be best, perhaps, for thou to not mention this at present to anyone, eh, Albada? So swear. Swear by my sword never to speak of this that you have heard. ” demands Shakespeare.
“Yes, Master Shakespeare, I do swear not to speak of this. Who would be foolish enough to believe me anyway?” says Albada. “I shall take my leave, sir, though I be out the cost of my now ruined folio!” replies Albada.
“O, thou are much condemn’d to have an itching palm.” chides Shakespeare.
“I, an itching palm!” retorts Albada.
“Yes, Albada, and know thee this: That way madness lies. Never fear, Albada, I shall put money in thy purse. I say put money in thy purse. And since money is the be-all and end-all for thee, I shall act as swift as a shadow. Here, here is thy outage and then some. It is money well spent for me. As for thy purse, Albada, spending should not be so painful. Remember, there never was yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently. So is it with spending. Who steals my purse steals trash; ‘tis something, nothing; ‘twas mine, ‘tis his, and has been slave to thousands.”
“Thank you, Master Shakespeare, and now I shall depart.”
“Parting is such sweet sorrow, Albada.”
Later that morning.
“Francis.”
“William.”
“Well Francis, we have seen better days; yet you wear your vale of years well, like a valiant dust. Come, and therefore sit you down in gentleness, and take upon command what help we have that to your wanting may be minist’red.”
“And to which chair shall I dodder, William? Thou hast a rascal’s wit and tongue! Part of thy charm, I suppose.”
“In thy shadow Francis, my wits faint!” says Shakespeare.
“I see thou hast a copy of mine latest work, William. What thinks’t thou upon it? How now and what’s all this then!? The frontspiece and dedication hast been ripp’d away. How came this outrage to pass, this tragedy of tragedies?”
“What the dickens, indeed, sirrah! We came crying hither at first notice of the loss ourselves! We two writers, you and I, Francis, are like a pair of star-crossed lovers, two households, both alike in dignity, yet I must confess an indignity to thee, Francis. ”
“An indignity? To me, William? Speak man, I will hear it!”
“The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation, and I’m afraid that I may have tarnished mine and put a brown spot on yours, Francis.”
“Speak clearly, William.”
“Aye, I must be a tower of strength. You wait with bated breath while I must find strength to enter a brave new world, cousin, because you, by chance may crown me!”
“William, I know less and less as you speak more and more!”
“Yea, verily, I see I must be cruel to be kind, Francis; so this bad begins and worse remains behind. I do repent, Francis. You see I have used portions of thy folio for… O, the room is grown too hot! But enough beating about the bush, Francis, for you and I are past our dancing days. I have this morning used the missing portions of thy folio, more as a statement of critique to my friend Albada than as a personal attack on thee, Francis, to wipe my ass!”
At this Sir Francis Bacon starts to jump up out of his chair, but falls back into it in a slump, his shoulders sagging.
“William, this is too much! Even for you. I know we have had our differences in the past – but this! I am finally at a loss for words.”
“Francis, cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend. I must have had one of life’s fitful fevers; I would better be with the dead.” sighs Shakespeare.
“I knowes’t full well, as does the world, that thou hast, on many occasions, purloined my words, William, but this…this is the end.”
“Then this would not be the time to offer thee cakes and ale, Francis, or caviar to the general?”
“Oh, thou art a thieving, insulting rogue, William!”
“Enough whining, sirrah! Your words read as dull as the backside of a knife; therefore, your folios are only good for backsides! I, on the other hand, with writing, am able to breathe life into a stone, quicken a rock, and make you dance canary with spritely fire and motion, whose simple touch is powerful to arise King Pippin, nay, to give great Charlemagne a pen in’s hand and write…do you hear! To write!” Shakespeare thunders.
“Everyone knows you have stolen from me, William, stolen words, ideas…I could write a book on the words you have stolen from me; nay, I will, I SHALL write that book, William!” Sir Francis is shaking with emotion as he rails away at Shakespeare.
“Promuses, Promuses,” says Shakespeare.
“Very clever, William, you literally take the words out of my mouth!”
“Go hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things; I am not of your element.”
With that Sir Francis arises and storms out of the room saying over his shoulder
“I shall cut out your tongue!”
“I wrote that first, but, ’tis no matter, I shall speak as much as thou afterwards.” replies Shakespeare.
“I will see you hang’d like clatpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools!” yells Sir Francis.
“Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you, thou plagiarizing poltroon! I WROTE THAT FIRST, TOO!!! Come sir, are you ready for death? Hanging is the word, sir. If you be ready for that, you are well cook’d. Go, and a good riddance!”
“I feel for you, William, more in sorrow than in anger, pathetic creature!”
“Damn your eyes, Bacon! I wrote that too! Off with his head!”
Sir Francis slams the door as he makes his exit. Shakespeare goes to the side table and pours a large goblet full of wine and quaffs it down.
“Damn that insufferable, egotistical, plagiarizing, self-centered…wait, that gives me a thought. I will have more to say to him!” Shakespeare races to the window, opens it and looks below just as Sir Francis is emerging from the door.
“BACON, THOU ART A HAM!” screams Shakespeare and slams the window shut.