Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four ActsDane, Clemence
General
Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts
Dane, Clemence
Dramatists -- Drama; Historical drama; Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616 -- Drama
I am not drunken with religious dream
Like the poor blissful fools of kingdom come:
I know the flesh is sweetest, when all’s said,
And summer’s heyday and the love of men:
I know well what I lose. I’m head of the Church
And stoop my neck on Sunday--to what Christ?
The God of little children? I have none.
The God of love? What love has come to me?
The God upon His ass? I am not meek,
Nor is he meek, the stallion that I ride,
The great white horse of England. I’ll not bow
To the gentle Jesus of the women, I--
But to the man who hung ’twixt earth and heaven
Six mortal hours, and knew the end (as strength
And custom was) three days away, yet ruled
His soul and body so, that when the sponge
Blessed his cracked lips with promise of relief
And quick oblivion, he would not drink:
He turned his head away and would not drink:
Spat out the anodyne and would not drink.
This was a god for kings and queens of pride,
And him I follow.
SHAKESPEARE. Whither?
ELIZABETH. The alley’s blind.
For the cross rules us or we rule the cross,
Yet the cross wins in the end.
For night is older than the daylight is:
The slack string will not quiver for the hand
Of cunningest musician.
Does the cross care, a chafer on a pin,
Whether Barabbas writhe, or very God?
All’s one to the dead wood! Dead wood, dead wood,
It coffins us in the end. God, you and me
And everyone--the dead wood baffles all.
And why I care I know not, but I know
That I’ll die fighting--and the fight goes on.
Yet not uncaptained shall the assault go on
Against dead wood fencing the hearts of men.
For this I chose you.
I am a barren woman. Mary’s child
Reigns after me in England. Yet, to-night,
I crown my heir. I, England, crown my son.
SHAKESPEARE. There was a better man but yesterday--
To him the crown! King was he of all song.
ELIZABETH. He’s king now of the silence after song,
When the last bell-note hovers, like a high
And starry rocket that dissolves in stars,
Lost ere they reach us. He is lord of that
For ever.
SHAKESPEARE. He--he had the luck; but I,
But England was not lucky.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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