The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the streets and sidewalks. A darkening to fit the mood of one William Shakespeare, adrift in self-pity from a failed day of âresearchâ. Certainly, one could not hope for every venture to succeed. Yet there was a tinge of regret in returning home none the wiser, not the worldlier. Such was his thinking as he sat, perched atop the short wall of the park's borders, attempting to find some value in his exertions. Some spirit must have taken pity on him, for it was at this moment that a gleam in the distance caught his eye. A lone figure who stood out from the sea of bodies which flowed lazily past his position.
His clothes were, from what Shakespeare could tell, Far Eastern in design. Ornate layers, overlapped as petals. Much resemblant of the very flower he saw fit to wear as a brooch. Whether twas in wealth or tradition, he wore it... Well, that was where his knowledge failed him. Even so, it was not his clothing which drew the half of Shakespeare's attention. Such trappings failed to cover a far less physical aesthetic.
The youth carried himself with a sense of grace, flowing with each step. The rhythm with which he weaved through the crowd acknowledged no deterrent, for his motion itself seemed to take affront in the suggestion that he could be inconvenienced. There was no thought behind the way he moved, simply an existence. Poise befitting a noble, and none other. It was the work of an artist. Formed by one, if he was not deserving of such merit himself.
So it was his eyes followed the youth. Down the sidewalk, turning now to pass by the park. Approaching the short wall he sat upon. This was not a chance to be passed upon. Such was his thinking as he made eye-contact with the boy, and began to speak.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare
Going so far as this was, even by his own standards, an act that defied all expectations of formality. Yet it failed to break his gaze. With bated breath he awaited the youth's response, confident his words would coerce a reaction. Baseless expectations, but... sometimes it was best to trust the sharpened edge of one's intuition.
