On my life, I have been reading the finest plays born of the intellect of a most excellent bard. A bard who's name is Shakespeare and as known any other's, and who's wit still may and must be seen to light, across all its noble length, the very gape of ages.
Having thus delighted in his work I beseech thou read him as I have so happily done, for once a man take pleasure in a thing, the thing is to a man's liking and as of a man's liking, enjoyed by other men.
For are we not of a common mold and yet not exactly alike? Having all a common set of preferences, and each having other likings not so commonly set? And when a man doth like as men will often do, how does a man know to count his liking as common or as his own? There is answer only in the asking, and perhaps not even then: 'tis not a crowd that before the chance is given to like or not, have always wisdom to name that of the two that shall be.
Therefore I cannot but enquire if you have acquainted your dear selves of this noble scribe and if having made acquaintance, have enjoyed it as I have.
Ah, the plays! The merry wit and scent of love in some, the great deeds and sense of strength in others. All true works of a true and luminous mind.