Twelfth night

It's January 5.  School as usual on Monday  :(

At least we'll find out whether I can still keep a blog when it isn't required and I'm carrying full loads of classes.

Meanwhile, here's the exchange between Olivia and Viola (who is dressed as a man)  from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night (or, What You Will):
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From Twelfth Night or, What You Will, Act 1, Scene 5

By William Shakespeare

OLIVIA.

Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face;

We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

[Enter VIOLA, and ATTENDANTS.]

VIOLA.

The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

OLIVIA.

Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?

VIOLA.

Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,— I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her:  I would be loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

OLIVIA.

Whence came you, sir?

VIOLA.

I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

OLIVIA.

Are you a comedian?

VIOLA.

No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

OLIVIA.

If I do not usurp myself, I am.

VIOLA.

Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

OLIVIA.

Come to what is important in't; I forgive you the praise.

VIOLA.

Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 't is poetical.

OLIVIA.

It is the more like to be feign'd; I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allow'd your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief; 't is not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

MARIA.

Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

VIOLA.

No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind; I am a messenger.

OLIVIA.

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

VIOLA.

It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as full of peace as matter.

OLIVIA.

Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

VIOLA.

The rudeness that hath appear'd in me have I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.

OLIVIA.

Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.

[Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS.]

Now, sir, what is your text?

VIOLA.

Most sweet lady,—

OLIVIA.

A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?

VIOLA.

In Orsino's bosom.

OLIVIA.

In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?

VIOLA.

To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

OLIVIA.

O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

VIOLA.

Good madam, let me see your face.

OLIVIA.

Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text; but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present; is 't not well done?

[Unveiling.]

VIOLA.

Excellently done, if God did all.

OLIVIA.

'T is in grain, sir; 't will endure wind and weather.

VIOLA.

'T is beauty truly blent whose red and white

Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.

Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,

If you will lead these graces to the grave,

And leave the world no copy.

OLIVIA.

O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labell'd to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

VIOLA.

I see you what you are, you are too proud;

But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

My lord and master loves you; O, such love

Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd

The nonpareil of beauty!

OLIVIA.

How does he love me?

VIOLA.

With adorations, fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

OLIVIA.

Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;

In voices well divulg'd, free, learn'd, and valiant;

And, in dimension and the shape of nature,

A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;

He might have took his answer long ago.

VIOLA.

If I did love you in my master's flame,

With such a suffering, such a deadly life,

In your denial I would find no sense;

I would not understand it.

OLIVIA.

Why, what would you?

VIOLA.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love,

And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

Halloo your name to the reverberate hills,

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out, 'Olivia!' O, you should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth,

But you should pity me!

OLIVIA.

You might do much. What is your parentage?

VIOLA.

Above my fortunes, yet my state is well;

I am a gentleman.

OLIVIA.

Get you to your lord;

I cannot love him: let him send no more;

Unless, perchance, you come to me again,

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well;

I thank you for your pains. Spend this for me.

VIOLA.

I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:

My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;

And let your fervour, like my master's, be

Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.

'What is your parentage?'

'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well;

I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art;

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,

Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast! Soft, soft!

Unless the master were the man. How now!

Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

Methinks I feel this youth's perfections

With an invisible and subtle stealth

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

What ho, Malvolio!

[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.

Here, madam, at your service.

OLIVIA.

Run after that same peevish messenger,

The county's man: he left this ring behind him,

Would I or not; tell him I'll none of it.

Desire him not to flatter with his lord,

Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him.

If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.

MALVOLIO.

Madam, I will.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.

I do I know not what; and fear to find

Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;

What is decreed must be, and be this so!

Pursued by a bear

The vacation is over now  :(  and it ended in such a hurry, as though it were being chased by a bear!  And I'm still working on only my fourth poem (I need 10 to 12 poems by the end of February in order to apply to Iowa again this year)  :(

Looking for lighter thought, I came up with this part from "Winter's Tale":
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From Winter’s Tale, Act 4, Scene 4

By William Shakespeare

[Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing.]

AUTOLYCUS.

Lawn as white as driven snow;

Cypress black as e'er was crow;

Gloves as sweet as damask-roses;

Masks for faces and for noses;

Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber,

Perfume for a lady's chamber;

Golden quoifs and stomachers,

For my lads to give their dears;

Pins and poking-sticks of steel,

What maids lack from head to heel.

Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:

Come, buy.

CLOWN.

If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no

money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the

bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.

MOPSA.

I was promis'd them against the feast; but they come not too

late now.

DORCAS.

He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.

MOPSA.

He hath paid you all he promised you: may be he has paid you

more,—which will shame you to give him again.

CLOWN.

Is there no manners left among maids? will they wear their

plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not

milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle

off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our

guests? 'tis well they are whispering. Clamour your tongues, and

not a word more.

MOPSA.

I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace, and a pair

of sweet gloves.

CLOWN.

Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way, and lost

all my money?

AUTOLYCUS.

And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it

behoves men to be wary.

CLOWN.

Fear not thou, man; thou shalt lose nothing here.

AUTOLYCUS.

I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.

CLOWN.

What hast here? ballads?

MOPSA.

Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print a-life; for

then we are sure they are true.

AUTOLYCUS.

Here's one to a very doleful tune. How a usurer's wife

was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she

long'd to eat adders' heads and toads carbonadoed.

MOPSA.

Is it true, think you?

AUTOLYCUS.

Very true; and but a month old.

DORCAS.

Bless me from marrying a usurer!

AUTOLYCUS.

Here's the midwife's name to't, one Mistress Taleporter,

and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I

carry lies abroad?

MOPSA.

Pray you now, buy it.

CLOWN.

Come on, lay it by; and let's first see more ballads; we'll

buy the other things anon.

AUTOLYCUS.

Here's another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the

coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom

above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of

maids: it was thought she was a woman, and was turned into a cold

fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her.

The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.

DORCAS.

Is it true too, think you?

AUTOLYCUS.

Five justices' hands at it; and witnesses more than my pack will

hold.

CLOWN.

Lay it by too: another.

AUTOLYCUS.

This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one.

MOPSA.

Let's have some merry ones.

AUTOLYCUS.

Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of 'Two

maids wooing a man.' There's scarce a maid westward but she sings

it: 'tis in request, I can tell you.

MOPSA.

We can both sing it: if thou'lt bear a part thou shalt hear; 'tis in

three parts.

DORCAS.

We had the tune on't a month ago.

AUTOLYCUS.

I can bear my part; you must know 'tis my occupation: have at it

with you.

[SONG.]

AUTOLYCUS.

Get you hence, for I must go

Where it fits not you to know.

DORCAS.

Whither?

MOPSA.

O, whither?

DORCAS.

Whither?

MOPSA.

It becomes thy oath full well

Thou to me thy secrets tell.

DORCAS.

Me too! Let me go thither.

MOPSA.

Or thou goest to the grange or mill:

DORCAS.

If to either, thou dost ill.

AUTOLYCUS.

Neither.

DORCAS.

What, neither?

AUTOLYCUS.

Neither.

DORCAS.

Thou hast sworn my love to be;

MOPSA.

Thou hast sworn it more to me;

Then whither goest?—say, whither?

CLOWN.

We'll have this song out anon by ourselves; my father and the

gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble them.—Come,

bring away thy pack after me.—Wenches, I'll buy for you both:—

Pedlar, let's have the first choice.—Follow me, girls.

[Exit with DORCAS and MOPSA.]

AUTOLYCUS.

[Aside.]

And you shall pay well for 'em.

Will you buy any tape,

Or lace for your cape,

My dainty duck, my dear-a?

Any silk, any thread,

Any toys for your head,

Of the new'st and fin'st, fin'st wear-a?

Come to the pedlar;

Money's a meddler

That doth utter all men's ware-a.

[Exeunt CLOWN, AUT., DOR., and MOP.]

More dialogue

Since I'm posting dialogue now, here's the priceless first exchange between Petruchio and Katherina from The Taming of the Shrew  :)
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From The Taming of the Shrew, Act 2, Scene 1

By William Shakespeare

Exeunt all but PETRUCHIO

PETRUCHIO.

                                                I'll attend her here,

    And woo her with some spirit when she comes.

    Say that she rail; why, then I'll tell her plain

    She sings as sweetly as a nightingale.

    Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear

    As morning roses newly wash'd with dew.

    Say she be mute, and will not speak a word;

    Then I'll commend her volubility,

    And say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

    If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks,

    As though she bid me stay by her a week;

    If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day

    When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.

    But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.

Enter KATHERINA

    Good morrow, Kate—for that's your name, I hear.

  KATHERINA.

    Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:

    They call me Katherine that do talk of me.

  PETRUCHIO.

    You lie, in faith, for you are call'd plain Kate,

    And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;

    But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,

    Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,

    For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,

    Take this of me, Kate of my consolation—

    Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town,

    Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,

    Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,

    Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife.

  KATHERINA.  

   Mov'd! in good time! Let him that mov'd you hither

    Remove you hence. I knew you at the first

    You were a moveable.

  PETRUCHIO. Why, what's a moveable?

  KATHERINA. A join'd-stool.

  PETRUCHIO. Thou hast hit it. Come, sit on me.

  KATHERINA. Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

  PETRUCHIO. Women are made to bear, and so are you.

  KATHERINA. No such jade as you, if me you mean.

  PETRUCHIO.

    Alas, good Kate, I will not burden thee!

    For, knowing thee to be but young and light—

  KATHERINA.

    Too light for such a swain as you to catch;

    And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

  PETRUCHIO. Should be! should—buzz!

  KATHERINA. Well ta'en, and like a buzzard.

  PETRUCHIO. O, slow-wing'd turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?

  KATHERINA. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

  PETRUCHIO. Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.

  KATHERINA. If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

  PETRUCHIO. My remedy is then to pluck it out.

  KATHERINA. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

  PETRUCHIO.

   Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?

    In his tail.

  KATHERINA. In his tongue.

  PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue?

  KATHERINA. Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell.

  PETRUCHIO.

   What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,

    Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

  KATHERINA. That I'll try. [She strikes him]

  PETRUCHIO. I swear I'll cuff you, if you strike again.

  KATHERINA.

    So may you lose your arms.

    If you strike me, you are no gentleman;

    And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

  PETRUCHIO. A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books!

  KATHERINA. What is your crest—a coxcomb?

  PETRUCHIO. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

  KATHERINA. No cock of mine: you crow too like a craven.

  PETRUCHIO. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

  KATHERINA. It is my fashion, when I see a crab.

  PETRUCHIO. Why, here's no crab; and therefore look not sour.

  KATHERINA. There is, there is.

  PETRUCHIO. Then show it me.

  KATHERINA. Had I a glass I would.

  PETRUCHIO. What, you mean my face?

  KATHERINA. Well aim'd of such a young one.

  PETRUCHIO. Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

  KATHERINA. Yet you are wither'd.

  PETRUCHIO. 'Tis with cares.

  KATHERINA. I care not.

  PETRUCHIO. Nay, hear you, Kate—in sooth, you scape not so.

  KATHERINA. I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.

  PETRUCHIO.

    No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle.

    'Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,

    And now I find report a very liar;

    For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,

    But slow in speech, yet sweet as springtime flowers.

    Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,

    Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,

    Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;

    But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers;

    With gentle conference, soft and affable.

    Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?

    O sland'rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig

    Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue

    As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

    O, let me see thee walk. Thou dost not halt.

  KATHERINA. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.

  PETRUCHIO.

    Did ever Dian so become a grove

    As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

    O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate;

    And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!

  KATHERINA. Where did you study all this goodly speech?

  PETRUCHIO. It is extempore, from my mother wit.

  KATHERINA. A witty mother! witless else her son.

  PETRUCHIO. Am I not wise?

  KATHERINA. Yes, keep you warm.

  PETRUCHIO.

    Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed.

    And therefore, setting all this chat aside,

    Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented

    That you shall be my wife your dowry greed on;

    And will you, nill you, I will marry you.

    Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;

    For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,

    Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,

    Thou must be married to no man but me;

    For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,

    And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate

    Conformable as other household Kates.

Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO

    Here comes your father. Never make denial;

    I must and will have Katherine to my wife.

Such a night

Actually, the night at hand is brutally cold  :(  but I'm staying upbeat and posting the Such a Night duet from The Merchant of Venice:
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From The Merchant of Venice, Act 5, Scene 1

By William Shakespeare

LORENZO

The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,

When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees

And they did make no noise, in such a night

Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls

And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,

Where Cressid lay that night.

JESSICA

In such a night

Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew

And saw the lion's shadow ere himself

And ran dismay'd away.

LORENZO

In such a night

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand

Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love

To come again to Carthage.

JESSICA

In such a night

Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs

That did renew old AEson.

LORENZO

In such a night

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew

And with an unthrift love did run from Venice

As far as Belmont.

JESSICA

In such a night

Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,

Stealing her soul with many vows of faith

And ne'er a true one.

LORENZO

In such a night

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

JESSICA

I would out-night you, did no body come;

But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

New Year

Happy New Year everyone  :)

Continuing the combination of Shakespeare and positivity, I'm posting from "Two Gentlemen of Verona" today.  Franz Schubert set a German version of this to music, and here is Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing it live  :)
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From Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 4, Scene 2

By William Shakespeare

Who is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.

Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness,

And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,

That Silvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling:

To her let us garlands bring.