A Motley Jest

SHAKESPEAREAN
DIVERSIONS

By Oscar Fay Adams

AUTHOR OF “A DICTIONARY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS,” “THE
STORY OF JANE AUSTEN’S LIFE,” “SICUT PATRIBUS
AND OTHER VERSE,” ETC.; AMERICAN EDITOR
OF THE HENRY IRVING SHAKESPEARE,
ETC.

BOSTON
Sherman, French & Company
1909

Copyright 1909
Sherman, French & Company

TO THE
OLD CAMBRIDGE SHAKESPEARE ASSOCIATION
THIS
LITTLE VOLUME
IS
GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED

PREFATORY NOTE

The Sixth Act of The Merchant of Venice was first printed in the Cornhill Booklet for March, 1903. The Shakespearean Fantasy now appears for the first time in print.

I
A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY

A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY
Scene I.

An island in the Middle Seas. A cave is seen on the right and before it, under a palm tree, Caliban is discovered sleeping.

[Enter Trinculo and Stephano, quarreling.

Trinculo. Since the day when the old gentleman they call Prospero took it into his bald pate to disappear into air along with a most goodly company beside, there’s not a bottle to be found i’ this isle, as I am a good Christian, and, what is more, a good Christian man’s son.

Stephano. Bottle me no bottles, Trinculo. Had we ne’er shared a bottle betwixt us we had not been left to bide by ourselves in this whoreson isle in the hard service of the man-monster, Caliban, but might be in fair Naples at this very hour.

Trinculo. Sagely said, Master Stephano. Thou wast ever wise enow i’ the tail o’ the event. An’ thou could’st have looked it thus wisely i’ the mouth, thou hadst been a made man, Stephano, a made man, and a householder, to boot.

Stephano. By mine head, a scurvy trick o’ the King to give us over to a dog’s life in this heathen isle with a man-monster for a master, and none other company beside.

Trinculo. More wisdom from that mouth of thine, most sage Stephano. Thou art indeed become a second Socrates for sober conclusions.

Caliban [awaking] What, Trinculo! Get me some food, I say, or thy bones shall pay thy jape. Get thee hence at once, for a mighty hunger is come upon me and I would eat. [To Stephano] Sing thou, and caper nimbly the while.

Stephano [sings and dances clumsily]

A lass I had,

A lass I had,

But I’ve a lass no longer.

She’s dead and cold

In churchyard mould

Grim Death he was the stronger.

Ariel [invisible] sings.

In churchyard mould

She lieth cold:

From her dust the violets spring.

To her dark bed

Have fairies sped

To sing her welcoming.

Caliban [alarmed] Methinks like music have I heard before

When Prospero I did serve. And it should bode

Damn’d Prospero’s return then were I slave

Again, doing his will in everything.

Stephano. What is this same that sings i’ the air without lips or body?

Trinculo [returning with food which he places before Caliban] Master Nobody is at his ancient tricks. An’ he be a devil, he hath an angel’s voice.

Caliban. Retire ye both, for I would be alone.

[Exeunt Trinculo and Stephano.
Ariel plays softly on a tabor, scatters poppy
leaves and departs, leaving Caliban asleep.

Scene II.
A room in the palace at Naples.

[Enter Ferdinand and Miranda.

Ferdinand. Admir’d Miranda, you are sad, and sad

Am I you should be sad. Then will you not

Declare what canker eats your tender rose

That I may kill ’t, or what untoward care

Weighs down your spirit, that I may kiss ’t away?

Miranda. O, my sweet prince, my husband Ferdinand,

In truth I am not well, and yet I am,

And yet again I am not. What say I?

It is no fever of the blood, no pain

That speaks in sharp besetment which doth ail

Me now. Not these, and yet ’tis somewhat, still,

And when I bid it down ’twill not away.

Ferdinand. O lov’d Miranda, ope thy soul to me.

Miranda. ’Tis silly, sooth, too simple for your ear

To heed ’t, and I unworthy of your love

To waste a single thought on it. O teach

Me to forget it utterly.

Ferdinand.O sweet,

And so I will, when I do know what is ’t

Thou would’st forget.

Miranda.And will you then forgive?

Ferdinand. I will, and yet I’m sure it is no fault

Needing forgiveness.

Miranda.You shall hear. In brief,

Since you will have the truth, I fain would see

Once more that isle where I beheld you first.

Might I behold it once again and but

For once, I then were satisfied, so you

Were by my side beholding it likewise.

Ferdinand. Would I might bear thee hence within this hour,

For that dear isle I love because of thee.

But our philosophers declare the spot

Was but enchantment rais’d by wizard spells

And sunk in ocean’s maw when Prospero,

Thy father, will’d it; never yet laid down

Good solid earth and rock on mortal map

And chart. How this may be I know not, yet

Our sailors swear that no such isle there is

And truly they should know their own realm best.

Miranda. I’m sure ’twas no enchantment.

Ferdinand.Save the maid

Who dwelt upon ’t, for she did cast a spell

About me when these eyes did first behold

Her there, and naught can take ’t away.

Miranda.Nay, now,

You jest, sweet sir.

Ferdinand.No jest, I swear to thee.

Ariel [sings]

Where, O where,

Is the isle so fair?

’Tis far to the east,

’Tis far to the west;

’Tis here, ’tis there,

That isle so fair:

O where, O where?

’Tis everywhere,

That isle so fair.

Miranda. ’Tis Ariel’s voice, my Ferdinand, but whence—

[sleeps.

Ferdinand [drowsily] The voice we heard upon the isle long since.

Sweet sound, with poppies curiously mix’d—

[sleeps.

Scene III.
The island in the Middle Seas.
Ferdinand and Miranda discovered sleeping on
a grassy mound. Soft music heard.

Ferdinand [awaking] With poppies mix’d—O, I did dream—but where

Am I? ’Tis strange, and yet not strange. This place

I do remember. Here Miranda saw

I first—

Miranda [awaking] How say you, husband, I have slept,

And all I look on now is chang’d, and yet

Not so, for surely here I dwelt of old

With Prospero, my father.

Ferdinand.’Tis naught else

But the same place, and we transported hence

Perchance as playthings of some kindly god,

Hearing thy tale and loving thee.

Miranda.Sweet prince,

My Ferdinand, then do we wake indeed,

Or is’t enchantment, and a sleep?

Ferdinand.I deem

It truth, and be it thus, or not, in truth

’Tis pleasant seeming, and we twain will fleet

The time as happily as when each knew

The other first.

[Caliban approaches, groveling

Caliban [aside] O Setebos, ’tis she,

Damn’d Prospero’s daughter.—Mistress, if it be

Thou’rt come to rule the isle I’ll serve thee well,

And Prospero be absent. Him I fear

As I do dread the awesome thunderstone.

Ferdinand. Lo! here come other of his company.

[Trinculo and Stephano approach.

Trinculo. Behold us, gentles, two as unhappy wights as ever ’scaped a hanging, or death by attorney.

Stephano. He speaks very true, as ’t were, now and then, and we two honest men from Naples be now in most wretched case—slaves to the man-monster, Caliban.

Thunder heard. Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo disperse by several ways and Ferdinand and Miranda retire to a cave near by.

Scene IV.
Another part of the same.

[Enter Prospero.

Prospero. My charms yet hold, though long disus’d, for I

Pitying Miranda’s melancholy plight

By magic of mine art have hither brought

Duke Ferdinand and her that so the twain

Belov’d may live their first joys o’er again.

Here shall they speed the time a full month’s space,

In such wise as they list, and then, at whiles,

Will I for their beguilement cause to pass

Before their eyes, when they shall sit at ease,

Weary of wandering o’er the mazy isle,

Figures of men and women, such, forsooth,

As Master Shakescene writ of in his plays.

These in their habit as they liv’d in those

Same plays I’ll re-create for their delight,

Peopling a mimic world with mimic folk,

And making so this desert populous.

[Exit.

Scene V.
Another part of the same.

A grassy space shaded by palms, before a cave at whose entrance Ferdinand and Miranda are discovered playing chess.

Miranda. O Ferdinand, the play was mine.

Ferdinand. I thought

’Twas mine, but it shall e’en be as you will;

I’ll take it back.

Miranda.Indeed, you should not, prince,

For whatso’er you do it seemeth right

To me, and now I see I did mistake.

Good sooth, I will not have it back. I say,

I will not have it back—but what are these

Tending their steps this way? a halting pair.

[Enter Nurse and Peter.

Nurse. Peter!

Peter. Anon.

Nurse. Take my cloak, Peter. Truly the sun’s heat hath made me all of a quiver, as they say. Marry I would e’en taste a little food before I go a step more. I’ll warrant you we are many a mile from Verona by this.

Peter. A good mile, I take it, for I was never in this place before that I wot of.

Nurse. Say’st thou so, Peter?

Peter. Marry, that do I, and will answer to ’t before any of womankind, and any of mankind too, that be less lusty than I.

Nurse. Peter!

Peter. Anon.

Nurse. Some food, Peter, and presently.

Peter. Here be strange fruits whose use I know not. A serving man of the young county Paris’s did to my knowing eat an apple that was brought from afar in a ship’s stomach, being a lusty youth and tall and much given to victual, and he did swell to bursting and died thereof while one might count thirteen by the clock. He made a fearsome dead body, as the saying is.

Nurse. Peter.

Peter. Anon.

Nurse. Thou shalt taste these fruits for me singly and in order, good Peter, and if no such harm come to thee as thou pratest of, then will I eat likewise.

Peter. Nay, but nurse, good nurse, good lady nurse—

Nurse. Hold thy peace, thou scurvy knave. Would’st suffer me to go nigh to death for lack of food and thou stand by the while like a jack o’ the clock when his hour has struck? Out upon thee, and do my pleasure quickly.

[Enter Mercutio and Romeo.

Mercutio. Here’s fine matter toward. Thy Juliet’s nurse, and her man Peter, quarrelling.

Nurse. God ye good den, gentlemen.

Mercutio. God ye good morrow, most ancient, and most fair ancient lady. Thy five wits, meseems, are gone far astray the whiles.

Nurse. Is it but good morrow? I had sworn ’twere long past noon, but, indeed, in this strange place, as one may say, there’s no telling so simple a circumstance as the time of day.

Romeo. Many things there be of which there’s no telling, such as the number of times a maid will say no, when her mind is to say yes; how many days the wind will sit i’ the east when one would desire fair weather; and how many years the toothless grandsire will wither out a young man’s revenue.

Nurse. That is all very wisely said, good sir. Are you that he they call the young Romeo?

Mercutio. He is rightly called Romeo, but as for his youth, if knavery be not left out of the count, why then was Methusaleh a very babe to him, a suckling babe.

Nurse. Say you so? Then will I tell my lady Juliet so much, an’ I can come by her in this heathen place.

Mercutio. Most ancient lady, yon Romeo would deceive the devil himself.

Nurse. Beshrew my heart. Then were my young mistress (who, to be sure, is no kind of a devil at all, saving your presences), led straight to a fool’s paradise. She shall know, and presently, what a piece of man he is.

Mercutio [seeing Miranda and Ferdinand.

O Romeo the young; young Romeo,

Forget thy Juliet but a space, for here

A lady is, fairer than Juliet, [pointing to Miranda]

And mine eyes serve me truly.

Romeo.O how rare

One pearl’s esteem’d until another’s found,

While that becomes the chief, till straight a third

Shines forth. So is’t with me. When Rosaline

I saw no lesser she might then with her

Compare. Next Juliet came athwart my sight,

And her I lov’d, forgetting Rosaline.

But now is Capulet’s young daughter sped

From forth my heart and in her place this fair

Unknown in Juliet’s stead is worshipped.

[He seems about to approach Miranda, but
is withheld by Mercutio.

Mercutio. Inconstant Romeo, have a care. For me,

I think her wed, and that the husband there,

May have a word to change with thee.

Romeo.Prate not

To me of husbands, my Mercutio—

Mercutio. Have peace, rash Romeo, thou—But who comes here?

[Enter Ophelia, strewing flowers.

Poor, tearful lady! See, she weeps, and smiles

Aweeping, wrings her hand, and smiles again.

Romeo. She makes as if to speak to us, poor soul.

Ophelia. This is All Hallow Eve. They say to-night each Jill may see her Jack that is to come. But these be idle tales to juggle us poor maids, withal, for I no Jack have found. Cophetua, they say, was a king who was wed to a beggar maid; a pretty tale is’t not? But there’s no truth in’t; there be no such happenings now, for my love was a prince indeed, but we were never wed, and now he is gone. [Weeps] He was a goodly youth to look on, but he is dead by this and burns in hell. [Sings]

He is dead who wronged the maid;

He is dead, perdy.

In the grave his bones are laid,

Hey, and woe is me.

O my love was tall and fine;

Fair he was to see.

As light doth from a jewel shine,

His eyes shined on me.

I cry your pardon, good people all. But there’s something lost, I think, and ’twill not be found for all my searching.

[Enter Hamlet.

Hamlet. The fair Ophelia. Sweet maid, do you not know me?

Ophelia. No, forsooth; I did never see you before, and yet methinks your eye hath a trick of Prince Hamlet’s in it. But that’s all one, for the Lord Hamlet is dead, and they say his soul is in hell for cozening us poor maids. [Sings]

He is dead that wronged the maid;

He is dead, perdy.

Miranda. I scarce can see for weeping. Would there were

But somewhat I might do to ease her pain.

Ferdinand. Her woe, me thinketh, is long past its cure.

But look! here comes a sadder wight than she.

[Enter Constance, with hair unbound.

Constance [to Ophelia] Thy wits are all disorder’d as mine own:

Then might we play at grief as who should know

The worst, but mine’s the heavier. You do mourn

A lover faithless, I a son whose face,

So sweet and gracious, made the world for me;

Perpetual solace to my widowhood.

Ophelia. I do not know you, but you weep and so do I, and surely that doth make us sisters in grief, and so because of that I’ll follow you whither you list, and you will let me.

Constance. Come then, and such cold comfort as I may

I’ll share with you, but sorrow’s cure is not

For us. Your lover groans in hell; my son,

My Arthur, lies within some oubliette,

Far down beneath the gracious day, dog’s food

His only meat, and cries on me, his mother.

Then may I well make friends with stubborn grief,

Since grief alone the heavens have spar’d to me.

Ophelia. Sad lady, I will go with you, weep when you weep, and be your humble pensioner in grief.

Hamlet [advancing] Ophelia, stay a little! What! not know

Me yet? Doth recollection show thee naught

Familiar in these eyes, this face, this form?

What, faded quite, my love and me, from out

Thy memory as the summer shower when past

Is quick forgot with one short hour of sun?

Ophelia. Love? I know what that doth signify. Is not love what we poor maids are fool’d with? Thus have they told me, and therefore I’ll not listen to you, for indeed I never saw you before, that I remember, and yet there’s something not so strange lurks within your speech. But go your ways, sweet sir. My Hamlet he is dead, and so I care for none of mankind now. [Sings]

He is dead, perdy.

[Exeunt Constance and Ophelia.

Hamlet. Alas, poor maid, I lov’d thee truly once

And still had lov’d, and so had wedded thee

With all due rites, but that my father’s ghost

Did stride between to part us evermore.

[Sad music heard]

[Exit Hamlet slowly.

Enter Launce leading a dog.

Launce. What a very dog is this my Crab here for a stony-hearted cur! Why but now there met us two distressed females weeping their hearts out at their eyes, and sighing, moreover, as ’twould move a very Turk to pity, and yet this cur took no more note on ’t than they had been two sticks or stones. Why, the Woman of Samaria would have plucked out her hair in pity of the twain, nay, so would I have done the same in her stead,—yet what say I, for there’s not so much hair on my head as my mother’s brass kettle has of its cover. A vengeance on ’t, now where was I? O, truly, I was e’en at the Woman of Samaria. Now, good sirs, and gentles all, the Woman of Samaria had for ruth plucked out her hair, but did not my dog Crab, who by your leaves is as hairy a dog as goes on one-and-twenty toes, shed even one hair in sorrow for the twain: not e’en the smallest hair on ’s nose. And the matter of the meeting was on this wise. This small stone, with the crack in ’t, is the maid, she with the flowers; and I think there be a crack in her wits, but no matter for that; this stone, a something bigger, ay, and with a crack in ’t, too, shall be the lady with her hair all unbound; this tree shall be the dog; nay, that’s not so neither, for I am the tree and the tree is me, and this stick is the dog, and thus it is. Now doth the small stone weep as ’twere a fountain gone astray, and may not speak for weeping; now doth the something bigger stone weep too, yet with a difference, and she doth not speak for weeping either, and truly I did weep likewise and no more could speak for my weeping than the poor distressed females might, yet there came all the while no word of comfort from this dog’s mouth, not even one tear from his lids. Pray God, gentles all, there be no such hard hearts among any of you, or ’twere ten thousand pities. ’Tis an ill thing to have a sour nature like my dog Crab’s, and no good comes on ’t.

Nurse. Beshrew my heart, and that is so. My Mistress Juliet hath the tenderest and the most pitiful heart that lives in a maid’s body, I do think, for she will weep by the hour together if she but behold a fly caught by the wings in a spider’s web.

Mercutio [to Romeo] No, Juliet, but a Niobe. Eh, man?

Romeo. Prate not of Juliet now, for I do love

Another way from her.

Mercutio.O, Romeo,

Once yet again I tell thee; have a care!

[Enter Falstaff.

Falstaff. This were a goodly place enow, and there were sack to be had.

Trinculo [aside] The fat fellow is verily in the right on’t, but since the old gentleman Prospero did give us here the sack there’s no sack here for the wishing.

Falstaff [calls] Francis.

Trinculo. I think there be none here by that name.

Falstaff. ’Tis no matter for the name; the play ’s the thing, the name is mere hollowness and sound. Here, you fellow with the dog, you whoreson shaveling of a man, what is thy name?

Launce. They call me Launce, an’ it doth please you, sir.

Falstaff. How if I do not please? Marry, and what is then thy name? Answer to that.

Launce. I could never i’ the world tell that, sir, and no more, indeed, sir, could my dog Crab that’s here, who, saving your presence, is the most hard-hearted cur alive.

Falstaff. No exceptions, good Launce; exceptions are the devil’s counters, therefore, beware of exceptions. But hark you, good man Launce. Fetch me here some sack, and let it o’erflow the tankard, too, for I’ve a thirst upon me such as Hercules came most honestly by after his twelve labours.

Launce. Please you, sir, I do not know the meanings of sack and Hercules. I did never see either of the gentlemen you speak of.

Falstaff. ’Tis no matter for Hercules, but, God’s pity for ’t, to be unacquainted with sack is to have lived as a dead man liveth. Sack, good Launce, is the prince of roystering blades; the pearl of price; the nonpareil of the world, the—nay, there’s no fit comparison to be made. Ambrosia and nectar together were but ashes i’ the mouth to ’t.

Trinculo [coming forward] You speak nothing aside the matter, sir, as I’m a true man. There’s nought to be named i’ the world before sack, and herein, of all places i’ the world, there’s no inn, no sack, no sack within. So you’ll e’en have to stomach that, though you’ve small stomach to’t.

Falstaff. Small stomach, say you? An’ you denominate this belly of mine a small stomach, there’s no truth in your tongue.

Trinculo. And no sack in your stomach, either.

Launce. These be as fine words as ever I heard.

Falstaff. Now, Sir Shaveling, and who bade you to speak?

Launce. None, sir. I speak but when I have a mind, sir, and I am silent when I have a mind, likewise.