Shakespeare hates me.
Honestly. He does.
“How artfully thine has twisted
and poisoned,
how skillfully thine has polluted my tongue,
and blistered and boiled with an articulate witch's brew,
what I wielded like an ink-soaked (albeit feminine) sword!”

Yes, Willy, I cuss like I use toothpaste.
Don't hate me.
“I am amused by the sinful way I am a
blossoming muse.
I am no one's back-alley knitting partner –
I am a man!
Who are thee to deny me my craft?
Sweet vermin maid, I left my Anne more than the bed.”

Oh, Bill! Seriously.
I'm a wayward daughter seeking approval.
Love me?
No?
“Ha! Your laughable similarity to Satan,
sweet heavens, save the angels stained by blunt vulgarity!
What is a miss but to be loved and wed?
Anne's sweet tongue got her more than
the bed!”

My words are tributes, minstrel father!
Just one nod over the morning paper.
Don't hate me.
“I love you like I love the one who
burns my chapel,
I beg that you see the way
your day and age has stained my name!
I forgive you, demon of the gates, for
your honesty.
Honestly. Begone with thee and I leave
you the second best bed.”

I'd rather be the guest.