[Enter SHAKESPEARE]

Alas! My pants are well burdened by wrinkles, as the conscience of a king is burdened by the weighty actions he hath made upon the throne. A bachelor shall I remain, and to the grave go I alone, should not from my pants these wrinkles out.

Cupid would be loath to waste an arrow on my behalf, should he bear witness to these wrinkles in my pants. There is but one remedy, to iron, and in so doing to have wrinkles no more. Only then, pants unwrinkled, should I be deserving of goodly company and pleasurable consort.

For no woman, neither milk maid nor royal, would take into her sight even the most handsome of men, should his pants be wrinkled. No skill at wit nor craft at jest could strong enough be to overcome the outrageous provocation of pants unsmoothed.

How comes this trick upon me? Shall I not die in sorrows, the sufferings reserved for men of wrinkled pants? No! I shall rise against such tyranny! Fortune hath placed an iron in my closet which please me more than words can wield the matter. Why, soon, shall these wrinkles out.

[Exit]