Scribbles In Shakespeare

 What follows is the account of a Bishop recounting an experience which, to the naked eye, borders on the most bizarre and surreal:

'T was the late hour of the night, whereby feeling a slight chill in the air, I reckoned it to be a calling of the Lord, to retreat to the sanctuary of His Heavenly House. No sooner had I bolted shut the front door, did the infernal cry rise from the depths. Surely but not surely, a demon as hath escaped judgment?

 Nay, chanced had I upon only a mere youth, prostrating in profane fashion in front of a fire ablaze, the state of his outstretched hands bloody and coarse. A demon, indeed. Just as I hath made my cautious approach, did he lift his head, and upon meeting my eye, began to ramble most incoherently.  

Long hereafter, have I pondered upon the verbiage, yet to me it still doth follow no rhyme, nor reason:

Pray you sir, do not think me some fell sprite

For indeed was I, a most chivalrous knight

Long, yet droll have been my campaigns of late

Much wearied had I been, yet never did I stray

For much I longed to confer with a fair maiden,

And relay to her all my term of victory;

For she both did steel my heart and make it tame.

When at last came I to her, I found her forlorn

Yet despite,  the warmest of smiles had I worn

No sooner did I begin, whereupon she spoke

Cursed my name and beseeched me ere I go

For a while I stood, all honor seeming tainted

I beheld her take her leave, in hand with the Bard

The bastard, the scoundrel, who knew naught of war.

My soul grew black, as black as mine lady's veil

With the union of Envy and Desire, dare I now remain a snail?

So in the dreariness of night, I crept upon the Devil

And struck his throat, going all the way to the navel

Screamed he, but mind of mine was much louder

'Tis now you see mine hands so stained

Not by holy war, but by sinful murder

A knight no more am I, truly a knave bewitched

Hell-bound, lest I by your grace, be justly blessed