Willy the shakes

[revolutionrabbit]

William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part III, Act III, Scene II:

Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
Would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for!
And yet, between my soul's desire and me—
The lustful Edward's title buried—
Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all the unlook'd for issue of their bodies,
To take their rooms, ere I can place myself:
A cold premeditation for my purpose!
Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty;
Like one that stands upon a promontory,
And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,
And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying, he'll lade it dry to have his way:
So do I wish the crown, being so far off;
And so I chide the means that keeps me from it;
And so I say, I'll cut the causes off,
Flattering me with impossibilities.
My eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much,
Unless my hand and strength could equal them.
Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard;
What other pleasure can the world afford?
I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap,
And deck my body in gay ornaments,
And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.
O miserable thought! and more unlikely
Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns!
Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb:
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,
To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits deformity to mock my body;
To shape my legs of an unequal size;
To disproportion me in every part,
Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp
That carries no impression like the dam.
And am I then a man to be beloved?
O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me,
But to command, to cheque, to o'erbear such
As are of better person than myself,
I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,
And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,
Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head
Be round impaled with a glorious crown.
And yet I know not how to get the crown,
For many lives stand between me and home:
And I,—like one lost in a thorny wood,
That rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns,
Seeking a way and straying from the way;
Not knowing how to find the open air,
But toiling desperately to find it out,—
Torment myself to catch the English crown:
And from that torment I will free myself,
Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.
Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,
And cry 'Content' to that which grieves my heart,
And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
And frame my face to all occasions.
I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;
I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.
I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.

[judih]

a man with ambition
and willy knows how to let us know

[revolutionrabbit]

came across this on some site i stumbled upon, and as we were talkin Shakespeare a few posts back, i just tossed it on here, as i was pondering the language he used.Wondering about the world through the play writer's eye, of those times, and how much has happened since, and how a modern day Shakespeare might see things now.But over and above that, just how a modern poet sees the world Shakespeare saw, then to now.Why would i feign to write in his style.And, as i did not train in a lot of scholarly study or analysis of such style, let alone read much of it besides seeing it made into movies.Let alone learn to write sonnets or in pentameter or iambic, i nevertheless feel drawn, to, thou, thine, and thee, and ere, and such dense language that Shakespeare used, to convey some vast irony, and or other even more profound contemplations of the nature of human words.I think Proteus, or Chameleon, or thorny hold much for me to grasp at."would he were wasted, marrow, bones and all"

[revolutionrabbit]

"that rends the thorns and is rent with the thorns,"

Oh, thorny horny born in the thicket of the thing
that rips and tares at the very roots of this song
it gets longer at each telling though thee short
of it do make shrift of the wick, doth the flame
sputter at the last flutter, of the wing that sings
through the ruddy air, doth plunge at the tail
spin, cutting the wind into shreds, thine threads
come undone, twine thine revolting mind keen
to the sound of the music, ere, the music thou
now hears, oh, jingle jangle, oh, thunder above
whence heaven's harps reap the struck chord
fallen through the trees once blessed as much
as damned the unwritten written it was spoken
woken through bleeding stained windows in voice
once risen above the gathered throng ere they reach
for the smoke whispering down the road where the
fire once stood in its glory just where the love kindled

there thee spark mingled fury with mirth thus stricken
hearts quicken stir at the source this mist of dew at dawn
now drawn down this very sweetness from the devil's lyric
fondling fruit like forbidden lovers run deep into thicken web
there they lay on once sacred ground listening to unwound
doth they swell with ardent travel unraveling mysteries veil