Cheop Has Shakespearean Fit!

O! Can it be that I am chicken livered (...mmmhhh...chicken liver...) and lack gall to make oppression bitter?

Zounds! I do blench at yon black kitten who so boldly takes liberty avec my personne. How I do know that I must claw him unto death lest he unseat me in my mighty office. And yet why is't I am so remiss in this my disciplinarianan duty of smacking him. He doth taunt me and, yea, eateth off my own plateth, and I, I who am a mighty warrior of catdom, I to whom the HUMANS kneel, I who hold sway o'er at least one or two other cats, I do not raise my paw, but address the dickens as "Dickens" and mewl unto him gentle sweetnesses: "How art thou, small cat?", "Hot day, yes?", and "Wouldst thou like to eat some Kitty Kaviar. It is made of fish flakes, don't you know." Does it befit a mighty cat of war to so befriend this runtish foe? By Bast and the Sphinx, I think my warrior blood has cool-ed to curdled clots of cat yack and my sickle claws bend and bow like unto little plasticky things that just aren't sharp.

I must be firm of purpose, and turn to adamantine my fur-bound soul. Yea, for he is a vile interloper and would undo me, and so would by now have done, were't not for my dogged vig'lance--O! Dogged! That it has come to this! That I now must make like Argus, that watchdog of Matron Hera, ever fearful of treach'rous machination like a jealous lover, forced by fate to lay aside my Nemean destiny! Aye, to't I shall go! I shall be cruel, but not wanton. I shall do what must be done and will smite him till he doth cry "Hold! Enough! Let me depart!" Yea, this is my firm intent. My course is set. Would the night were come!

Cheop of Denmark