I’m Not Shakespeare – a song (W.I.P.)
I’m not Shakespeare
But, I’m the closest thing you’ve got;
My name’s not William
but I write an awful lot
just like he did
when he was alive;
I’m not Shakespeare
and my latest work
is Veronese Gentlemen 5.
“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then, the whining school-boy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with a good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”
Jaques, Act 2 scene 7
As You Like It
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #AsYouLikeIt, #Jacques, #poetry. #poem, @ShakeapearesGlobe, @Shakespeare
“Admired, Meander.”
“What?”
“Sorry, Miranda, I was just thinking about a walk once, where we wandered lonely, as woolly clouds”
“Oh, yes; I remember. We were lost.”
“Surely not, Miranda. We were just wandering – we found our way back, didn’t we?”
“Only because we stumbled upon a Caliban, and, having given him some water with berries in’t, and shown him the bigger light and the lesser, he told us which path to take to get us back to this draughty cave.”
“Into air, thin air.”
“Oh, you do talk a lot of twaddle, father!”
Will & Ben: Renaissance Men – a horf?
Ben: My horʃ, my horʃ, my kingdom for a horʃ?
Will: It’s a horse, Ben; ‘a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse.’
Ben: Thou art so old fashioned, Will. How will anyone be able to read this rubbish?
Will: I’m not letting you trick me into admitting it is ‘rubbish’, Ben; I think that a lot of people are quietly pleased that I am keeping the old mother tongue alive.
Ben: Quietly indeed, Will – my mother’s tongue and my father’s eyes hath I – in this box, durst thou wan’t to see them, again, Will?
Will: Nay, good Ben, I have neither the eyes nor the stomach to spy upon them a second time – once was once more than enough.
(A pause)
Ben: ‘the sound of one hand clapping frightens no chickens’.
Will: One of yours, Ben?
Ben: A line that I have recently quilled for my ‘Every Man in His Humour’. I quite like it’s understated relevancy, Will.
Will: A palpable hit with the unwashed molasses, Ben, palpable in truth for a distance of feet.
Ben: ‘Two feet makes a distance much further than three.’ I shall use that one day.
Will (aside): Use it ‘and’ abuse it, I am sure. The fool shall speak it well, be that it is in your own voice.
Ben: Charming!
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Jacobean, #Jonson, #RenaissanceMen, #tudor, #willandben, @Shakespeare, Dialogue
Ben: Will! Will!
Will: What ‘tis, Ben?
Ben: Hast thou written a will, Will?
Will: hast thou written a ben, Ben?
Ben: No; but, seriously, Will – hast thou?
Will: No, Ben, I hast not written a… will. Shouldst there be a reason for my doing so?
Ben: The will-writer hath come to town.
Will: Ben! Will the Writer is always in town; except for when he wends his weary way back to Stratford. Then Will the Writer is in the country, Ben.
Ben: Very droll, Mr. William Shakespeare; but, if thou doth, please remember that you hath promised me of your second-best bed – it is a King James size bed – and wouldst well replace my old Queen Elizabeth size one. Will?
Will: I thought I said I wouldn’t leave you my second-best ‘bed-pan’, Ben – Ben being the shortened form of ‘bed-pan’.
Ben: Thank you, Willie Wormwood, Thank you so much!
Will: You are welcome, Bed-Pan.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #Fun, #Jonson, #RenaissanceMen, #silly, #willandben, @Shakespeare, Dialogue, humour
As You Like it A2SC7
Jaques:
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
There was a black Hamlet,
and a white Othello,
all the youths were salad green,
and Dogberry was yellow;
Lady Macbeth was spotty,
and King Lear, he was dotty;
all in all, a colourful performance
of Shakespeare’s ‘Where Thou, Art?’
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