I might as well leave you with Toby and Andrew for the hiatus. I have been writing a poem about Twelfth Night. Writing poems about plays is, I suppose, like composing music about music. But I like it. Anyway, I hope these gentlemen take better care of you, SOS, than I have been since coming here. They are great fun to drink with, although a little repetitive. (R&G, anyone?) You say honestly. Rest you merry.

TWELFTH NIGHT, ACT II, SCENE III. OLIVIA’s house.
Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW

SIR TOBY BELCH
Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after
midnight is to be up betimes; and ‘diluculo
surgere,’ thou know’st,–

SIR ANDREW
Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up
late is to be up late.

SIR TOBY BELCH
A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can.
To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is
early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go
to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the
four elements?

SIR ANDREW
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists
of eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY BELCH
Thou’rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.
Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!