"There may be room for ruin yet, And ashes for a wasted love;Or, like One whom you may forget, I may have meat you know not of.
And if I'd rather live than weep Meanwhile, do you find that surprising?
Why, bless my soul, the man's asleep!
That's good.The sun will soon be rising."Ben Jonson Entertains a Man from StratfordYou are a friend then, as I make it out, Of our man Shakespeare, who alone of us Will put an ass's head in Fairyland As he would add a shilling to more shillings, All most harmonious, -- and out of his Miraculous inviolable increase Fills Ilion, Rome, or any town you like Of olden time with timeless Englishmen;And I must wonder what you think of him --All you down there where your small Avon flows By Stratford, and where you're an Alderman.
Some, for a guess, would have him riding back To be a farrier there, or say a dyer;Or maybe one of your adept surveyors;Or like enough the wizard of all tanners.
Not you -- no fear of that; for I discern In you a kindling of the flame that saves --The nimble element, the true phlogiston;I see it, and was told of it, moreover, By our discriminate friend himself, no other.
Had you been one of the sad average, As he would have it, -- meaning, as I take it, The sinew and the solvent of our Island, You'd not be buying beer for this Terpander's Approved and estimated friend Ben Jonson;He'd never foist it as a part of his Contingent entertainment of a townsman While he goes off rehearsing, as he must, If he shall ever be the Duke of Stratford.
And my words are no shadow on your town --Far from it; for one town's as like another As all are unlike London.Oh, he knows it, --And there's the Stratford in him; he denies it, And there's the Shakespeare in him.So, God help him!
I tell him he needs Greek; but neither God Nor Greek will help him.Nothing will help that man.
You see the fates have given him so much, He must have all or perish, -- or look out Of London, where he sees too many lords;They're part of half what ails him: I suppose There's nothing fouler down among the demons Than what it is he feels when he remembers The dust and sweat and ointment of his calling With his lords looking on and laughing at him.
King as he is, he can't be king de facto, And that's as well, because he wouldn't like it;He'd frame a lower rating of men then Than he has now; and after that would come An abdication or an apoplexy.
He can't be king, not even king of Stratford, --Though half the world, if not the whole of it, May crown him with a crown that fits no king Save Lord Apollo's homesick emissary:
Not there on Avon, or on any stream Where Naiads and their white arms are no more, Shall he find home again.It's all too bad.
But there's a comfort, for he'll have that House --The best you ever saw; and he'll be there Anon, as you're an Alderman.Good God!
He makes me lie awake o' nights and laugh.
And you have known him from his origin, You tell me; and a most uncommon urchin He must have been to the few seeing ones --A trifle terrifying, I dare say, Discovering a world with his man's eyes, Quite as another lad might see some finches, If he looked hard and had an eye for nature.
But this one had his eyes and their foretelling, And he had you to fare with, and what else?
He must have had a father and a mother --In fact I've heard him say so -- and a dog, As a boy should, I venture; and the dog, Most likely, was the only man who knew him.
A dog, for all I know, is what he needs As much as anything right here to-day, To counsel him about his disillusions, Old aches, and parturitions of what's coming, --A dog of orders, an emeritus, To wag his tail at him when he comes home, And then to put his paws up on his knees And say, "For God's sake, what's it all about?"I don't know whether he needs a dog or not --Or what he needs.I tell him he needs Greek;I'll talk of rules and Aristotle with him, And if his tongue's at home he'll say to that, "I have your word that Aristotle knows, And you mine that I don't know Aristotle."He's all at odds with all the unities, And what's yet worse, it doesn't seem to matter;He treads along through Time's old wilderness As if the tramp of all the centuries Had left no roads -- and there are none, for him;He doesn't see them, even with those eyes, --And that's a pity, or I say it is.
Accordingly we have him as we have him --Going his way, the way that he goes best, A pleasant animal with no great noise Or nonsense anywhere to set him off --Save only divers and inclement devils Have made of late his heart their dwelling place.
A flame half ready to fly out sometimes At some annoyance may be fanned up in him, But soon it falls, and when it falls goes out;He knows how little room there is in there For crude and futile animosities, And how much for the joy of being whole, And how much for long sorrow and old pain.
On our side there are some who may be given To grow old wondering what he thinks of us And some above us, who are, in his eyes, Above himself, -- and that's quite right and English.
Yet here we smile, or disappoint the gods Who made it so: the gods have always eyes To see men scratch; and they see one down here Who itches, manor-bitten to the bone, Albeit he knows himself -- yes, yes, he knows --The lord of more than England and of more Than all the seas of England in all time Shall ever wash.D'ye wonder that I laugh?
He sees me, and he doesn't seem to care;
And why the devil should he? I can't tell you.
I'll meet him out alone of a bright Sunday, Trim, rather spruce, and quite the gentleman.
"What ho, my lord!" say I.He doesn't hear me;Wherefore I have to pause and look at him.
He's not enormous, but one looks at him.
A little on the round if you insist, For now, God save the mark, he's growing old;He's five and forty, and to hear him talk These days you'd call him eighty; then you'd add More years to that.He's old enough to be The father of a world, and so he is.
