Dear Sirrah,
Still no appetite for thy heinous concoction doth my tongue construe to desire.
Neither hither nor yon would’st such tinted and perhaps tainted fare present itself less foully to my palate.
I dislike the notion of consuming such victuals even within mine own dwelling, whereas being attended by a rodent during the course of such a repast seems ill-bethought.
Likewise did the fox seem poorly put upon when I did but seek to inquire if he would care to join me in a supper of such surpassingly unusual colour. And as for my retiring to the confinement of a box of suitable size to permit, whilst I did find the quietude fortuitous to composing verse, methinks it did but little to render my dislike of the plate placed before me into a true liking.
Forsooth, I am far beyond the age where dining on a tree branch seems practicable.
I knoweth not of this ‘train’ of which thou spake, but I doth contend that verily, no such conveyance of the future would do more to commend such a dastardly meal to mine stomach than any of thine other recommendations, and as for supping in inclement weather, would’st thou indeed have me catch my death of consumption in such a manner?
Nor would’st consuming them upon the oaken deck of yon sturdy boat enhance the virtues of said ghastly repast. And whilst questioning thy advice to devour them in the presence of a barnyard animal, their taste would be to me no more appealing were said goat well nigh at hand.
In short, my good Sir Samuel, I still but belikest me little of thy offering of eggs and ham the colour of foliage. Nor does the prospect of swallowing any foodstuffs that do take on such hues as might be seen amongst the hills and vales of Ireland suite my fancy. Green, I bethink me, ’tis a far more becoming colour than it is a flavour.
Therefore I sadly restate my refusal to partake of thee thy kindly rendered invitation to sup with thee on this particular dish.
Though I take thee at thy word that the verdant overtones of this repast is due not to rot nor rancidness, still do I pray of thee, tempt me not further upon this course. I liketh me not this breaking of my fast with eggs and ham whose visage is thus despoiled.
your obedient servant, W. Shakespeare.
year of our Lord, 1602
Pouring My Art Out 