Chris Peterson wrote:English is vastly richer and more expressive today than it was in Shakespeare's time. Beauty, as they say, is in the eye (or ear) of the beholder. Or if you prefer the Bard, Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.
I think it is hard to hear much beauty in the common usage of one's native tongue. The content obscures the sound. But there is still much beauty in English (language) literature and poetry, where the goal is to turn a pretty phrase. I rather expect that you'd find less beauty in the vernacular (perhaps even vulgar <g>) English of Shakespeare's day than in his plays.
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<<Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.
The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator
Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in
the destruction of the planet Earth.
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz smiled very slowly. This was done not so
much for effect as because he was trying to remember the sequence
of muscle movements. He had had a terribly therapeutic yell at
his prisoners and was now feeling quite relaxed and ready for a
little callousness.
The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation Chairs --strapped in.
Vogons suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were
generally held in. Their early attempts at composition had been
part of bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a
properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that
kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness.
The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect's brow, and slid round
the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a
battery of electronic equipment - imagery intensifiers, rhythmic
modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers - all
designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure
that not a single nuance of the poet's thought was lost.
Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for,
but he knew that he hadn't liked anything that had happened so
far and didn't think things were likely to change.
The Vogon began to read - a fetid little passage of his own
devising.
"Oh frettled gruntbuggly ..." he began. Spasms wracked Ford's
body - this was worse than ever he'd been prepared for.
"... thy micturations are to me | As plurdled gabbleblotchits on
a lurgid bee."
"Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!" went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back
as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside
him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his
teeth.
"Groop I implore thee," continued the merciless Vogon, "my
foonting turlingdromes."
His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned
stridency. "And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly
bindlewurdles,| Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my
blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!"
"Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!" cried Ford Prefect
and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the
last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.
Arthur lolled.
"Now Earthlings ..." whirred the Vogon (he didn't know that Ford
Prefect was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of
Betelgeuse, and wouldn't have cared if he had) "I present you
with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or ..."
he paused for melodramatic effect, "tell me how good you thought
my poem was!"
He threw himself backwards into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat
and watched them. He did the smile again.
Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his
parched mouth and moaned.
Arthur said brightly: "Actually I quite liked it.">>
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Arthur Neuendorffer
