Rhona Silverbush teaches Shakespeare at her New York City home. Ramsay de Give for The Wall Street Journal

You can't say you've lived—certainly in New York City—unless you've taken evening classes at a place such as the New School, the Alliance Francaise or the Institute of Culinary Education. Signing up for one serves as testimony to the typical New Yorker's relentless ambition and quest for self-improvement. Or as a commentary on the tedium of their day jobs and the desire to change the score of their lives. Or maybe they're just looking for romance, and a class on making sauces is far more civilized than prowling pick-up bars.

My own experience with continuing education—I was probably searching for all of the above at one point or another—has been checkered. I took a screenwriting class many years ago and am still waiting to break into the motion picture industry. I also studied Italian for several semesters, but my command of the language is no better than it was before. And I never dated anyone I met in any of my classes.

I don't blame the results on my teachers, who seemed professional and enthusiastic. I think it was more an issue of my body clock. Come 6 p.m., my brain is telling me to party rather than hit the books.

That uninspired history made me reluctant to accept the Shakespeare Society's invitation to audit actor and Shakespeare expert Rhona Silverbush's introductory five-week course, where students learn to better understand the bard's work and also to speak it with "confidence and pleasure."

That last part is from the course description. And if there's anything more aspirational and optimistic, more brimming with purpose and promise, than an adult-education course catalogue, I haven't found it.

Yet there would be something to be said for becoming comfortable with Shakespeare. You wouldn't feel obligated, even after graduating from Ms. Silverbush's intermediate or advanced courses, to rent a hall and mount a one-man show. But it might tempt you to stay tuned, rather than switch to sports, throughout Masterpiece Theater the next time Kenneth Branagh appears in "Hamlet" or "King Lear."

Come to think of it, wouldn't night school be more fun if there was alcohol involved? Whatever might be lost in mental acuity or to slurred speech—admittedly, a liability if you were assigned the St. Crispin's Day speech from "Henry V"—would be more than compensated for by the temporary sense of well-being, melting inhibitions and false confidence that is liquor's calling card.

Absent those enhancements, Ms. Silverbush did as well as anyone could at making me and the four other students who showed up at her art-filled Flatiron District loft (three others were absent that evening) feel welcome and at ease. She was assisted by Juno, her labradoodle, who, after greeting each guest individually, settled down among us with a chew toy.

"I normally take her to run with the wolves," Ms. Silverbush explained, apologizing for Juno's sociability, and adding something about a cough. "The vet said I'm not allowed to take her out for two weeks."

Earlier classes had addressed context and meaning in Shakespeare's work. "You'd be amazed how many people don't know what they're saying," she stated cheerfully.

No, I wouldn't.

The session I attended was to explore, through meter and sounds, several Shakespeare monologues the students had taken home to study and brought back to speak. Ms. Silverbush is a human-rights lawyer, and she studied theater at Brandeis University and performed with regional theater and Shakespeare companies.

She's also the co-author, with Sami Plotkin, of "Speak the Speech! Shakespeare's Monologues Illuminated." It's an extremely useful and fun book, taking more than 150 of the poet's speeches, annotating them, providing commentary and exploring how meter, sounds, word choice and even pauses reveal character and guide performance.

In her affectionate hands, Shakespeare becomes more accessible, less intimidating and even more awesome. "He's tucked into every line," she said.

"I miss acting," she admitted. "But it's even more exciting when people have 'Ah-ha!' moments."

Alan Harris reads Polonius's 'Hamlet is mad' speech in the course. Ramsay de Give for The Wall Street Journal

The class included Corrina Bain, a performance poet and social worker; Felicia Castaldo, a Hunter College student; David Murray, a Jersey City fireman; and Alan Harris, a software company sales manager. (However, Mr. Harris's spirited reading of Polonius's speech from "Hamlet"—the one where he shares with the king and queen his misgivings about Hamlet as a suitable mate for his daughter Ophelia—suggested he must also have acting in his blood.)

Ms. Silverbush said some take her course to get over their fear of Shakespeare; others to develop a richer appreciation for his work; and a few because they're actors honing their craft, or just because they like to read out loud. "The next week they want to read something else," the instructor explained.

She argued that through Shakespeare's word choice (such as perpend; and gather and surmise), Polonius brands himself a long-winded, self-important prig.

"How did that feel for you?" Ms. Silverbush asked gently.

"Better, less nerves every time," Mr. Harris said.

"I loved you getting upset at the white bosom. You're finding all the things to play with."

The teacher was referring to a line—"in her excellent white bosom"—in a love letter, recited by Polonius, from Hamlet to Ophelia. Although the bosom in question apparently referred not to the maiden's alabaster breast, though perhaps to that, too, but, according to Ms. Silverbush's book, to a practical pocket sewn into Elizabethan women's clothing at the bosom to store handkerchiefs, letters, purses, etc.

Ms. Silverbush announced she'd be addressing Shakespeare's imagery in the next class, and the clues it offered to character and state of mind. I was sort of sorry I'd miss it. But there's always next semester.

Corrina Bain reads Constance's 'I am not mad' speech. Ramsay de Give for The Wall Street Journal