Phoenix
by Dale J. Sprague
Variations of Shakespeare
A Winter of Discontent
Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by all the clouds, in the deep bosom of the ocean buried, that sieged our home. Now, our brows are bound with victorious wreaths, our bruised arms hung as monuments, our stern 'call to arm' changed to delightful pleasures. Grim'visaged war has smoothed its furrowed brow, and instead of mounting barbed steeds to fright the souls of fearful adversaries, victors caper nimbly in a lady's chamber to the lascivious pleasing of lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive trysts, nor made to suit an amorous looking glass..I, that am rudely stamped, and with love's majesty, to strut before a wanton ambling nymph?..I, curtailed of this fair proportion, cheated of feature by dissembling Nature..deformed, unfinished..sent before my time into this breathing world half'made, so unfashionably and lamely that dogs bark at me, and then at my shadow...why, I, in this shepherd'piping time, have no delight in its passing unless to spy my shadow on a sunny day, and contemplate its..disarray
And therefore, since I cannot prove to be a lover, to while'away these well'sung days, I am determined to prove a villain and hate the idle melodies of the shepherd's pipe. Plots have I laid. Inductions dangerous. By prophesies drunk with libels and fantasies..I set in deadly hate, one against the other. And if they be as true and just as I am subtle, false, and treacherous, this day will be appropriately caged
They do me wrong, and I will not endure it! Who is it that complains and villifies me?..because I cannot flatter and look fair..smile at faces..smooth, deceive, and fawning...duck with faint nods and apish courtesy, I be turned to a rancorous enemy. Cannot a plain man live and think no harm?..but thus this simple truth must be abused with silken, sly..an insinuating narrow eye
I do not know. The world has grown so bad that little wrens prey where eagles dare not perch. Since every deceit became a gentleman, or a lady, there's many well'born, living stillborn. So do I ever, likewise, being well advised, for I had cursed and cursed the mote in my own eyes
I do the wrong, and first began to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I originate, I lay unto the grievous charge to others, who I have indeed cast in darkness...as I beweep gullibles, do they believe it, and withal whet my wit, and sigh, and with a piece of scripture, tell them that the divine bids us "Do good for evil," and thus I clothe my naked villain with odd old ends stolen forth from holy script...a devil errors a saint
Innocence!..an untainted virtue of youthful years, not yet divided into the world's deceit, nor capable of distinguishing one from one's outward show
With written letters, fame lives long. Thus, like a trickster in a trickster's play, I create two meanings in one word like the short'lived precocious in a divided world. However, I am not made of stone, and though two as one, I am penetrable to kind entreaties..albeit against my conscience and earthly soul
Fate!..by divine decree buckled dubious fortune on my back, to bear the burden, whether I will or not, I must have patience to endure it, but if black scoundrel or foul'faced reproach attend the sequel of your imposition, your mere compulsion shall release me from the impure blots and stains thereof, for the divine knows and you may partly see how far I am from the desire of this, its treachery
So, I am satisfied! Give me a stein of wine. I have not that alacrity of spirit, nor cheer of mind that I was want to have. Is ink?..and paper ready
In battle think and die in terror of guiltiness! Dream on, dream on..of bloody deeds and death..fainting, despair..despairing, yield infectious breath! I died for hope before I could lend any aid, and cheer the heart...be not dismayed. Give me another horse! Bind my wounds! Have mercy...I did but dream. Coward conscience!..how you afflict me! The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fear drapes my trembling flesh. What do I fear? There's no one nearby. I love I..that is, I am I. I am murdered. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am...I to I. Then fly! What?..from myself, a great reason why!..lest I revenge. What?..myself upon myself..for any good that I, myself may have done unto myself? I'd rather hate myself for the hateful deeds to myself
I am a villain, yet a lie, I am not. Fool!..of myself I speak well. Fool...do not flatter. My conscience has a thousand separate tongues, and every tongue tells its tale, and every tale condemns me for villainy..perjury, perjury in the highest degree. All several sins, all used in each degree, throng to the bar, crying..."Guilty! Guilty!" I shall dispair...no creature loves me, and if I die, no soul will pity me. Nay..why should they?..if to myself, I have no pity
Methought that all I had murdered came to my tent and threatened vengeance on my head. A horse! A horse! My kingdom!..for a horse