Shakespeare, you’re your own jester, or a poor counselor.
Love bends constantly, or it snaps like sugar in the canebrake,
bows each day in these marshy thickets domesticated by decree,
springing tensile, erasing from memory all the stray words, slights
to that fragile and faulty soldered daily repair that improves each
day the grievances it lines out, shreds to confetti, removes. Love
alters every day, and some days it turns the eraser upon itself.
It is not death that parts us, but all the interstitial spaces between
the sugar rows, the intermezzos, when we’d rather carry the
melody forward. We choke on elegant prefixes of love, all thanks
to him, when a simple “I do” would have sufficed quite nicely,
he who left us dumbstruck to learn that suffixes are brutal.

But I’ll give the bard his well-earned recompense:
Pardoning breasts of dun is a compliment to common sense.