One by me, a parody of a famous poem:

Encouragements to an Author

Why so pale and wan, fond author?
Prythee, why so pale?
Will, when working hard can't move her,
Drinking hard prevail?
Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, dumb author?
Prythee, why so mute?
Will, when writing well can't win her,
Writing nothing do't?
Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! Muse she may be,
This cannot make her;
If for you she will not be a lady,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!

Based on `Encouragements to a Lover' by Sir John Suckling (1609-1642)

One by Jeanne D'Artois, one of my other identities. This one is a
parody of a very famous Shakespearian speech:

Danish Parody
by jeanne_d_artois ©

To post or not to post: that is the question.
Whether it is better in a file to bury
The twists and turns of a disorder'd mind
Or submit a spell-check'd copy to this site
And by posting end them? To post: no doubt;
No more: and by one act to say we end
The heartache, and a thousand natural shocks
Of writing frenzy – `tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To post – to show
The same font as greater poets, well rhym'd:
To sleep unread, unheard – Ay, there's the rub –
To low views, no votes, a poet may be doomed
When writing poems not classifi-ed erotic
Must give us pause. There's the fear
That keeps an willing poet unnaturally silenc'd; .
For who would bear the taunts and jibes of some:
The unlicensed critics, the tearful importunity,
The pangs of well-meaning friends that may
Tear the matter from the meaning and spoil
The patent merit of the author's words
When she herself might her quietus make
With the delete key? Who would creation bear
To grind and sweat under a Muse's whip
But that the hope of something more like fame
The undiscovered acclaim whose happy warmth
No author can shun, puzzles the brain
And makes rather bare such skills we have
Than try some other that we know not of?
Thus creation does make authors of us all;
And how the native wit of composition
Is striven over with the pale art of thought
And anecdotes of great sex and passion
With the sweep of editing turn all awry
And lose all hope of recognition.

Dick