"Oh please, no Hamlet," he says, a laugh escaping his throat but turning into a gasp as Crowley finds a particularly sensitive spot on his neck.

"How about-- ah, love's stories written in love's richest books, to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes? No?"

He racks his brain again, and places a hand, precariously, on Crowley's hip, thinking through the lines of the plays he had enjoyed. Teasingly, he settles on: "They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able."