It’s that time again—yes, Will Shakespeare’s
birthday—when we bring out a couple of selections from the master. Always a
highlight of National Poetry Month.
As you know, I
like to share something from a play, as well as a poem-in-its-own-right.
And since this past year has seen the definitive identification of the remains
of Richard III, and (finally) his burial as an actual king of England (albeit
in Leicester, which is making a complete tourist trap out of it), let’s have
something from Shakespeare’s tragedy about the last of the Yorkist kings.
As you recall, Shakespeare’s Richard is deformed in body,
mind and soul. As you’ll also recall, Shakespeare was getting his material from
Tudor historians; all
of them were in the pay (or patronage) of one Tudor or another. Think of it
as being a historian or playwright with Stalin looking over your shoulder.
Anyhow, Shakespeare sets up Richard’s wickedness right at
the opening scene, which begins with his soliloquy, as Duke of Gloucester:
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of
York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our
house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious
wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry
meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful
measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his
wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded
steeds
To fright the souls of fearful
adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive
tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous
looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want
love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair
proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling
nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my
time
Into this breathing world, scarce half
made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of
peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a
lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken
days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these
days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and
dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be
mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here
Clarence comes.
There’s nothing at all subtle about this: Richard flat
out says that—since he’s physically deformed and therefore no one will love him
regardless of his actions—he’s fitting his morals to his ugliness. And, by the
way, even though the Yorks have only just ascended to the throne (in the form
of his tall, hunky brother Edward), he’s already mapping out how to kill the
one brother and blame the other for regicide.
Yikes!
So let’s have something different by way of mitigation,
then. Here’s Sonnet 30. If there’s any better description of friendship, I want
to see it.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
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