{Songfic 23-30 June} Vnnecessarie Payne: A Faulte of Wil

O Heauen! O sorrow droppe from mine brest,
Ne'er hath been svch a sovl of maiden faire,
Thieved of her covntenance; nights of un-rest,
Ador'd curve of shoulder and coif of hair.
Dark paines of loue; no waxing inundation of sunne,
How doth saints talk of goodnesse where there is none?
What sorowe full desyn; a pouertye of swete yet richesse soure,
Swallowed in an Abyssian cloake; a lyfe of miserrie in but an houre,
Absent her; a bodie lacking heade, a window absent glasse,
Vnlike ships; transitory as their wont mine griefe shall not passe.

Ophelia, A Certaine Iewel
Iohann Nashe, 1582

"Well?"

Thomas Spencer looked up from the parchment and rubbed his eyes. It would be easily digested by the cretins that lived for such pitiful stuff. To Spencer it was a farce; a fool's jest complete with piebald cap. "I pray you did not spend your entire purse on such brilliant calligraphy?"
John frowned."Calligraphy? That is what stirred you when heartsblood is as plain in that composition as heat from fire?" John Nashe drank the remainder of his beer. "It's flowing with-"

"Pompous twaddle." Thomas Spencer interjected, rolling his eyes. Nashe scoffed. "Oblige me to read it aloud and then you shall see." Thomas listened, his eyes looking up in vexation or as this was a first tried dish and he was unsure of the flavour. When John finished the other man sighed. "It's floral John, sugary adolescence but now you need to write more like John Heathgrave than John Nashe. Less verbose homily more crudely described fornication." Thomas said in all jocularity. John winced. Never had his works been compared to the offensive scrawlings of that Scotsman. Gone are the pastoral settings replaced with crowded streets of toothless peasants slinging defecate where their shoeless bastards beg for coins. Perhaps all culture will soon be judged by the merits of the Heathgraves of the world. "I say John, my boy you were a thousand leagues away. I understand your story, many a life has been taken for lost love but in truth you saw this beauty last when?"

"She was fifteen," John begrudgingly admitted. "I was seventeen."

"There you have it, you are twenty four! Some romanticised riverside fumblings with a lass just encroaching upon womanly budding and you write of sorrow? Something truly of immeasurable grief would have to happen for you to be a noted Tragedian. Indecently, where did this dove fly so you cannot follow?" John sighed. "Wurzburg, working the kitchen of a nobleman. I wrote her three years ago letting my intentions be known. She did not respond." He finished his beer and ordered another.

He smiled at John as the fresh beers were poured. "A broken heart is a malady easily cured sans a visit to an apothecary. John, buy a woman and lay with her. Or find something worth lamenting and make us both rich."

"Thomas, were you a gentleman I'd demand this be settled by the sword." John said. "Wonderful luck that, me being common." Thomas replied.
The men shared a laugh but once again John grew distant. "I've simply lost my taste of this place; I find no joy in drink or when I sup. I feel as though this world is passing me by, I stumble through this grey fog, wasting time. I'm waiting Tom; I'm waiting to find a light, something to illuminate a road I know not." Spencer nodded. It was common to experience a pall when one reached middle age. "I'm thirty one John. I walked the very halls of uncertainty that vexes you now, but it passes like a consumed harvest feast."

"You are poignantly uncouth."

"A trait some find endearing, you need not walk the halls alone. I will publish your poem in a collection later this month because I find it distasteful to see such an aged man in morose exposition." The John smiled. "Yet I still wish to do something daring; mayhap obtain a commission and marry Ophelia? I'm going to go to the ships now and might be gone by the morning. You may write of my adventures." He chuckled."Or write your eulogy." Tom frowned."Such a glower, you?ll see. I will make her proud to have me." With that comment he stood and left the tavern. Thomas could have retrieved him, but he wanted John to find what he was seeking nevertheless sleep came difficultly that night.

***

The tavern was filled with patrons due to the recently berthed ships. The atmosphere was a cacophony of foreign songs and vulgarity. It caused Thomas an internal distemper and he would rather take his leave from the horde. As he stepped out the door into the early afternoon air a young woman bumped into him. "Is this The Pembrooke tavern?"

"It is but it's somewhat over populated now, best come back early evening." He said.

"I'm looking for a boarder here."

"I stay here, one Thomas Spencer is it I you seek? This would make a disagreeable day rather brighter." He smiled. The woman returned the smile.
"A man named John Nashe."

"The lost Ophelia."

"You know of me?" She asked."By reputation, John did mention you yet I'm afraid he left for sea in an effort to quiet his thoughts regarding you.
"But I wrote him every month he never responded, did he get my letters?"

Of course not you soft-headed sow. I burned them all. "I cannot say, perhaps your words spurred him to the action he decided. There may still be a chance to catch him. Wait here in case he may return."

Thomas made haste until he rounded the corner of the tavern; one could see the harbour from the Pembrooke it was but a five minute brisk walk but he would take his time this day. He strolled past the alley that always smelled like piss, acknowledged the vendors; their button eyes and gypsy sneers adding to the unsavoury air of commerce. "Pork Pie today Tom?"

"Ah, but you see I?ve already had diarrhoea this morn." He whistled a jaunty tune and saw John right away; the man wore an indigo doublet complete with ruff. "You look like a valet. How goes your naval charge?"

"It has been an experience. My ship is a claimed French frigate, crewed by Turks and Poles. Only I the captain and one rigger are English. Did you see the name Tom?" The other man read it and clicked his tongue "Phillip's Decumbence." He looked at John and frowned. "A tad incendiary for the moniker of her majesty's vessel, you're a pirate then. Your father would be proud." Tom sighed, growing more proud by the moment. "Supposition is the tools of a simple mind; we are a sealed privateer with direct orders to sink anything flying Spanish colours." John beamed. "A gentleman stands before me; perhaps it's enough to win your lady fair? At any rate, I am proud of you. I've enjoyed our time together."

"And me, Tom. Take care of yourself. I will write." The men nodded at each other and parted ways.

Walking in the Pembrooke Tom glared where Ophelia sat, out of place like a stone in a field. "Dear girl, he left but this morning. They said his ship along with three others is to hunt Spanish standards. A dangerous mission, some say a mortal mission they don't expect any of them to return. He left almost as soon as you arrived; likely you passed each other on dock would be my guess. Regrettable you did not arrive sooner."

The woman began to cry, daubing at her eyes with her apron.

"There is a place behind Sommersette Inn atop the hill where other women with longing in their hearts frequent to stare at the sea to find a quiet. Some swoon and meet tragic ends due to loose rocks and unsure footing. I don't believe in self-murder but it really wouldn't be if one ponders it, due to the rocks you see." He gave her arm a knowing squeeze. She nodded and stood to leave; already beginning to pine and yearn for an escape.

"Good-bye Ophelia." He said watching her walk away to what will most likely be her death. He ordered wine and felt invigorated; it was not everyday one could orchestrate such a profitable misfortune.

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