In a London pub a man sat drinking at a bar.
Nothing unusual about that, you might think. Although, you could say that this man had a checkered past. He had certainly experienced a number of ups and downs. As it happens, he was an extremely bright fellow. He had been drinking for a while before striking up a conversation with another patron. It may simply have been the drink that had him open up to a complete stranger, and it was probably due to the fact that he’d been drinking longer than the other that had him rambling on. Presumably, he thought his life interesting enough to dominate the conversation. The man he was talking to didn’t recognise him, and there was no reason why he should.
At first they talked about the great wave of pestilence that had swept through their city. They then went on to exchange views about the local theatre that had burnt to the ground and had recently been rebuilt. The man described himself as a prolific reader, who had dreamt of becoming a great actor. He had written a lot of poetry. He saw them as private poems, but one of his patrons decided to publish them. He talked about his children; first a daughter, then twins, a boy and a girl. He explained that there were complications when giving birth to the twins and it meant that his wife was unable to have more after that. Unhappily the boy died when he was only eleven. With this he became very sad.
The other, having seemingly tired of the conversation, stated that he needed to get home. He offered his commiserations and left.
The man sat alone, quietly finishing his drink before he too got up and left.
It was an incident in Cheapside.
The pub was the Mermaid Tavern, the year was 1642, and the man was William Shakespeare.
