[11:32] matociquala: I wonder if truepenny knows any useful Elizabethan terms for masturbation. *g*
[11:32] matociquala: Nashe is not helping me here.
[11:32] matociquala: *pets Tom*
[11:32] matociquala: (not that way)
[11:33] specficrider: petting Tom sounds like a good term
[11:33] specficrider: *g*
[11:33] matociquala: God help me, I'm about to use the word "prick" in a work of literature.
[11:33] matociquala: Shakespeare *has* corrupted me.
[11:34] specficrider: prick is a good anglo-saxon word
[11:34] allochthon: There are worse fates than being corrupted by Shakesspeare!
[11:34] matociquala: It's a wonderful word. I'm still blaming Will(y).
[11:34] matociquala: or Willie.
[11:34] matociquala: As the case may be.
[11:35] matociquala: Aha. Both Marlowe and Nashe have references to "playing with it." I guess that will do. Some euphemisms never change....
[11:36] matociquala: ...I don't believe I'm having this conversation with myself.
[11:36] jmeadows: *watches Bear*
[11:36] specficrider: hee hee
[11:36] matociquala: Some days, I love my job.
[11:36] specficrider: yeah, there are times ...
[11:37] specficrider: sex scenes tend to be those times ...
[11:37] specficrider: and the research!
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vexed thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.
--William Shakespeare, Sonnet 135
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
Will, will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckoned none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store's account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me for my name is 'Will.'
--William Shakespeare, Sonnet 136.
And they say literature isn't good for anything. It's the penis jokes, Bob. The penis jokes!