From Measure for Measure:

He, who the sword of heaven will bear
Should be as holy as severe;
Pattern in himself to know,
Grace to stand, and virtue go;
More nor less to others paying
Than by self offences weighing.
Shame to him whose cruel striking
Kills for faults of his own liking!
Twice treble shame on Angelo,
To weed my vice and let his grow!
O, what may man within him hide,
Though angel on the outward side!
How many likeness made in crimes,
Making practice on the times,
To draw with idle spiders’ strings
Most pond’rous and substantial things!

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

The former governor of New York State seemed like someone we might trust.

When he held the attorney general post, he had a reputation for upholding the law, so we dismissed character assassins and voted for his vision.

But now he’s fallen. He got caught lying, breaking the law, and dismissing morality.

What will we be thinking about seemly politicians that ask for votes or money now? How can we risk what misconducts one might be hiding? How do we tell smiling inspirational charm from hidden smug selfishness?

From Henry V:

But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make; when all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day, and cry all, “We died at such a place;” some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it, whom to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

The latest primary melee offered some hard choices. It was a moment for me to do what I really feel strongly about.

I like Hillary, and I’d help her win in a jiffy, but I heeded Barack Obama’s calm knoll for hope, and really prefer to see polls let him win.

Senator Clinton voted for the war and fogey Senator McCain’s philosophy is to keep goading it on.

I went for the fledgling Barack Obama because he had the most wisdom about the war when it was thought less than patriotic to challenge the president. That was the integrity and judgment that we need to see deciding in the White House.

However, any one of them would be better than goofball Bush.

I did this one already, but some felt that the O.J. Simpson reference was a cheap shot, so let’s try another anagram of the same passage.

From Othello:

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you speak
Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well;
Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplex’d in the extreme;

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Othello’s wanting absolution, but too bad. Never expunge the element of the fatal. No matter how many times he explains, we will not keep it out.

Is any spoken excuse good enough to justify a murder?

The 2008 Iowa caucuses, held earlier this week, prompted me to think about what Shakespeare had to say about populist politics and corn. Enjoy!

From Coriolanus:

They said they were an-hungry; sigh’d forth proverbs:
That hunger broke stone walls; that dogs must eat;
That meat was made for mouths; that the gods sent not
Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds
They vented their complainings; which being answer’d,
And a petition granted them, a strange one,
To break the heart of generosity,
And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps
As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon,
Shouting their emulation.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

The Iowa votes were hyped this week.

Fifteen worthy hotshots together hoped to get a trophy: the state’s trust.

Northerner Barack Obama won among the eight Democrats, with the wealthy Senator Edwards and dethroned Hillary Clinton behind.

Southerner Mike Huckabee won among the seven Republicans, leading smug Mitt Romney and haughty Fred Thompson.

The holders of the highest party totals might run a harsh slog against one another in ten months.

From The Merchant of Venice:

Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh?

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

On these eight days, just as white snow blankets outside, we light menorahs, witness joyous children amass presents, and comment on our history and freedoms. Here, we beam feats of Judah Maccabee, who defied, and so defeated, the manacles of Seleucid antisemitism.

This website wants to wish you a Happy Hanukah season.

Yesterday’s Cake War prompted me to think about what Shakespeare had to say about pastries and revenge. I came up with the scene where Titus tells his enemies that he’s going to bake them into pies and serve them to their mother. Enjoy!

From Titus Andronicus:

Hark! villains, I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I’ll make a paste;
And of the paste a coffin I will rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads;
And bid that strumpet, your unhallow’d dam,
Like to the earth swallow her own increase.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Initially, a Nonny Nu did hail my King Lear cake as unpalatable, until I had W flip her off on her site. A mad armada from both sides, we would post the worst insults.

So, our feud oath lasted a day. Tomorrow, I will know better. The cake had proved wiser than us all.

From A Midsummer Night’s Dream:

Fetch me that flower; the herb I show’d thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Would these instant loves be hollow? Or is the market in cue for the demand? They let freewheeling pharmaceutical elements hoot with joy to fix date-rape medicine.

The blog was getting a lot of hits looking for living descendants of Henry VIII, so I posted an answer, and followed up with an anagram version of the answer.

Now, because those words appear on the blog, I’m getting a lot of hits looking for living descendants of Shakespeare.

You can check out the Shakespeare family tree yourself, or you can just read this week’s Shakespeare anagram.

From Love’s Labour’s Lost:

Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
Live register’d upon our brazen tombs,
And then grace us in the disgrace of death;
When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge,
And make us heirs of all eternity.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Our favorite ultra-premium poet has no living descendants.

Firstly, he begat three basic little prizes (smart trio!) with his gal Anne Hathaway.

Thereafter, son Hamnet fathered none because he kicked it young.

Furthermore, both daughters had children, but none of those unveiled any themselves.

The Shakespeare Geek and Satia have been hating on King John this week.

But when I did my own rankings, I listed it as my 13th favorite Shakespeare play, ahead of The Merchant of Venice, Twelfth Night, Romeo and Juliet, and even The Taming of the Shrew.

So I thought it would be a good time to say a few words about why I ranked it so high. And because today is Saturday, I think I’ll do it as an anagram.

From King John:

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Why do I build up King John?

Hamnet’s death fills our Bard with sensitivity to how parents suffer the loss of children. This monologue of Constance seems to be ripped from his sad soul. Wow.

Unlike whiny crummy dorky wimpy gruff bastards from Much Ado or Lear, suaver Falconbridge is a wise fool. Welcomed to the royal family, he is a merry commentator of events, to mystify or befuddle foes with wry whimsy.

The odd solipsism in Mommy plus the portrayal of young Arthur are also why I recommend this history.

Earlier this week, I attempted to answer the question of whether Henry VIII has any living descendants, but I fear my answer may have been a bit too long winded. Perhaps I could deliver a more succinct answer if I made an anagram from the speech in Shakespeare where Henry talks about his daughter Elizabeth.

From Henry VIII:

O lord archbishop!
Thou hast made me now a man: never, before
This happy child, did I get any thing.
This oracle of comfort has so pleas’d me,
That when I am in heaven, I shall desire
To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.

Shift around the letters, and it becomes:

Henry VIII has no descendants that live.

Hail papa! From each of the four mommies, the Eighth had a hip kid: Catholic Mary, bastard Henry, wise Bess, and little Edward.

These had no more. His chromosomal line was stopped. Gone.