Just two quickfire sketches.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
SKETCH 1:
INT. TUDOR HOUSE. DAY.
A beardy man dressed in full Elizabethan garb including neck frill sits at his writing desk, quill in hand.
POET
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
He sits deep in thought for a moment.
POET
Nope.
He scrumples up the paper and tosses it over his shoulder.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
SKETCH 2:
EXT. RIVERBANK. DAY.
A man in a renaissance period frilly floaty shirt and pantaloons lounges by a river bank, puffs away on an opium pipe, and listens to the birdsong.
POET
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
Pause.
POET (cont.)
(swelling with poetic inspiration)
It's loveliness increases.
Pause.
POET (cont.)
(sternly)
It will never be a dirty slag.
CUT AWAY to 15 year old girl in modern clothes, tarted up: slapdash make-up, her breasts bulging out of her shirt, a mini skirt so small it might as well be a thong, and pink and yellow highlights in her peroxide frizzled hair.
POET
I hope you've learnt your lesson. This time.
DAUGHTER looks at him ruefully, nods, looks at her feet in shame.
POET swings a baby -- pink, rubbery, screaming, rat-like -- around his head and tosses it into the stream with a splash and a glug-gurgle. Screaming ceases.
He wipes his hands.
POET
Like it never happened.