I think I'm stuck with a true-love's knot. Which sadly, isn't nearly so phallic.
Very nice limeade may be made with crushed fresh mint, Rose's lime juice, simple syrup, and water.
I'm currently amused by the axis of idiots who not only insist that Marlowe wrote Shakespeare's plays, but that there is evidence that Kit was Elizabeth's bastard. (With all the pups the old bitch was dropping, if you take all the rumors into account, it's no wonder she didn't keep her figure.)
It's just another level of snobbery. Not only could an uneducated peasant like Will not have written some of the crowning glories of English literature, but a peasant like Marlowe never could have made it into university on a scholarship on his own merits. In fact, it perhaps combines the worst form of snobbery of both the Marlovians (only a man with a university education could have written this work) and the Oxfordians (only a nobleman could have yadda yadda.)
And rather, I think robs from the crowning achievements of both men.
I suspect this nonsense is provoked overall by reading too damned much Generic European Fantasy, and thus being led to look for Significant Birthmarks in all circumstances. As an uneducated peasant myself--and let us not forget, Albert Einstein started off an uneducated peasant, as did Abraham Lincoln, as did Samuel Clemens, and Frederick Douglass, and, and, and--I find this whole thing the biggest pile of cackheaded nonsense the world has ever seen.
Genius is not constrained by social rank or education. And in a society with something approaching accessible literacy for a significant portion of the population, it doesn't even bear discussion.
Modern English literature owes its existence to the Elizabethan system of patronage, the Protestant church, the printing press in private hands, and a double handful of brilliant, witty, casually cruel, amazingly generous, drunken, bawdy, lowerclass, hot-tempered young men who spent easily as much time writting nasty broadsides about each other as they did producing art, who refused to be bound by convention, who saw a glory in language no-one in our tongue had quite approximated before, and whom you would probably cross the street to avoid if you saw them coming on a Sunday afternoon.
It makes their achievement greater, not less, to acknowledge it.
Live with it.
Love is not ful of pittie (as men say)
But deaffe and cruell, where he meanes to pray.
--Christopher Marlowe, Hero and Leander (II, l. 287-288)