Extract from the diary of a Shakespearian character who has woken up to find him or herself transported to the present day
June the twenty-second – I awake
Into what seemeth like a dream: no Quince,
No Snout nor Snug nor Flute nor Starveling,
But unfamiliar faces and a wench,
As sour as Titania is sweet,
Who bid’st me say what sort of job I seek
And where my talents lie. ‘Forsooth!’ quoth I,
‘No labour do I seek. I am by trade
A worthy weaver and a thespian
Admired by dukes and commoners alike.’
‘Next please!’ says she, dismissing me withal
As though I were an ass! And thus dismissed
I wander streets as weird as might be seen
In some midwinter’s nightmare, past belief.
O Peter Quince! I trow thou could’st not write
A ballad half so mad as this my plight.
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