Whew! I'm tired

Shakespeare had to have had a garden. The Tempest wasn't about a man and his slave, it was about a garden and it's slave. Why else would he have written, "I'll rack thee with old cramps, and fill all thy bones with aches"?

It was such a nice day, too. Seventy-something degrees, blue skies, gentle winds, birds singing, sun gently warming your face, and a cold beer in hand. Could have went for a drive. Could have went for a stroll. Instead, I went to planting, digging, raking, transplanting, grunting, groaning, and moaning. I'm wooped. Somebody get me another pale ale, will you?