And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, and hedges,

Defective in their natures, grow to wildness,

Even so our houses and ourselves and children

Have lost, or do not learn for want of time,

The sciences that should become our country;

But grow like savages,-- as soldiers will

That nothing do but meditate on blood,--

To swearing and stern looks, diffused attire

And every thing that seems unnatural.

-Burgundy

King Henry the Fifth              Act V, Scene ii, Line 60

 

Burgundy is talking about how France has been negatively affected by the lack of peace in the land. It’s a pretty vivid picture.

Well now, this pic looks a little like lands defective in their natures, grown to wildness. In fact, though, it's just a rainy fall day, seen from my dirty cellar window. I guess looks can sometimes be deceiving, eh?

 

 

For by my soul, were there worse end than death,

That end upon them should be executed.

-Saturninus

Titus Andronicus                   Act II, Scene iii, Line 303

 

Yikes! It doesn’t sound too good for Titus’s two sons, Quintus and Martius, who’ve been found in a pit with the murdered body of Saturninus’s brother. Of course, we know that the two sons are innocent, but I’m not sure that’s going to matter much. Just about everyone ends up dying in this play anyway. 

This is Will’s stab at a slasher film/play. A little out of character for him; don’t you think?

And here we have the exact opposite of the brothers' fates. Nothin' but blue African skies and beautiful clouds over a built-in pool with a backdrop of the endless African plains. Yup, I'm doing a little better than Quintus and Martius, that's for sure.  

 

 

Your date is better in your pie and in your porridge than in your cheek: and your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of our French wither’d pears,- it looks ill, it eats dryly; marry, ‘tis a wither’d pear; it was formerly better; marry, yet, ‘tis a wither’d pear; will you anything with it?

-Parolles

All’s Well That Ends Well             Act I, Scene i, Line 164

 

So we’re at the very beginning of the play. Parolles is the pal of Bertram. He’s talking to Helena, and the latter is very sweet on Bertram, though I’m not sure yet if Parolles is aware of that. They’re having a discussion about virginity, and Parolles is saying, well, you can see what he’s saying. If nothing else, at least he’s being honest about what he thinks.

Rather than give you a discussion of virginity, a subject I am not very qualified to speak on, I'll give you a picture explaining why I didn't post in the last two weeks. I was hanging out with these guys and their wifi is not very good. As a side note, I don' think they care too much about virginity. But then again, what do I know?

 

 

 (Warning: Long post with political content. Reader beware!)

Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth

-King Richard

King Richard the Third         Act V, Scene iii, Line 319

 

This is late in the play, and this is Richard’s speech to the troops before the Battle of Bosworth Fields. That is the battle where Richard has his famous my kingdom for a horse line. It’s also the battle where he dies and his forces lose.

 What I thought might be interesting today was to compare Richard’s speech before this battle to Henry V’s speech before the battle of Agincourt. Now keep in mind that Will is painting Richard as the bad guy (though in reality he was probably not quite the rat that Will makes him out to be) in this play and in Henry V he is painting Henry as a hero (and Henry is held in very high regard in English history).

 So let’s compare the two speeches. Here’s Richard, the bad guy, from a play that Will wrote early in his career.

 

K. Rich. His oration to his Army.

What shall I say more than I have inferr'd?
Remember whom you are to cope withal:
A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and run-aways,
A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants,
Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth
To desperate adventures and assur'd destruction.
You sleeping safe, they bring you to unrest;
You having lands, and bless'd with beauteous
wives,
They would restrain the one, distain the other.
And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in Britaine at our mother's cost?
A milksop, one that never in his life
Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?
Let's whip these stragglers o'er the sea again;
Lash hence these overweening rags of France,
These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives;
Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,
For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd them-
selves:
If we be conquer'd, let men conquer us,
And not these bastard Bretons; whom our
fathers
Have in their own land beaten, bobb'd, and
thump'd,
And, on record, left them the heirs of shame.
Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives?
Ravish our daughters? [Drum afar off.
Hark! I hear their drum.
Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen!
Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head!
Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood;
Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!

 

Now here’s Henry, the hero, from a play Will wrote a bit later in his career.

 

K. Hen. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmorland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an
honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from
me,
For the best hope I have. O! do not wish one
more:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my
host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian:
He that outhves this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and shows his scars,
And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our
names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not
here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any
speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

  

I hope you can note the difference in tone.

Richard spends most of his time name-calling and extolling his men to protect the country from heirs of shame who would ravish our daughters; typical demagogue talk. Also note that Richard’s battle is taking place in England, the opposing force being led by an Englishman who just happens to have legitimate claims to the throne.

Henry V, on the other hand, spends most of his speech telling his guys what heroes they’re going to be, and that history will remember them (it did). And note that Henry’s battle takes place in France where the Brits will win and be the conquerors.

I know there’s a bit of reading here, but I think it’s worth it. Give it a shot.

I know, I think I said something about cooling it with the orange. But whenever I read about a leader being a name-caller and blaming troubles on the 'others', I can't help myself. Sorry.

 

 

 

                                            Ah, dear Juliet,

Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe

That unsubstantial death is amorous,

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps

Thee here in dark to be his paramour?

-Romeo

Romeo and Juliet                   Act V, Scene iii, Line 103

 

This is, of course, the last scene of the play. Romeo is talking to Juliet. He believes her to be dead, and he is amazed at how beautiful she is even in death. Well, we know that she’s not actually dead yet. I guess that’s the thing. She’s not dead yet.

                                     I'm not dead yet.

Too bad Juliet didn't have a little more spunk in her, like this guy.