B00ARI2G5C EBOK
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We’ll pour caressing poison in his ears
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Till he believes us when we tell him straight
That she’s come-hithering so and so as well,
That she’s lame, hunchbacked, or an addlepate—
In fact, that he’ll be marrying trash. We tell
Similar stories to the bride: we say,
For instance, that her friend, the other day,
Spoke to that other girl, or some such slight.
They may be reconciled, but never quite.
MEGAERA. That’s a mere trifle; once she is his wife
My work begins. Their happiness I can
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Destroy with mere ill humour. Human life
Is various, various are the hours of man.
The lover may embrace what he desires,
But longs at once for something still more sweet;
Poor fool! He quits the joy of which he tires,
Seeks to warm ice, flees the sun’s ardent heat.
All this well suits the tricks I have in mind.
My faithful demon Asmodeus* stands by,
We scatter well-timed mischief, he and I;
Thus, pair by pair, we ruin all mankind.
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TISIPHONE. Death, not merely tittle-tattle,
Is my vengeance on the traitor!
Knife or poison, soon or later
Comes the adulterer’s requital.
Moments of sweet love must all
Turn to froth and turn to gall;
Here no special plea assuages,
Guilt must pay its utmost wages.
Let none sing ‘Forgive, forgive!’
‘Justice!’ to the rocks I cry;
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‘Shall the fickle-hearted live?’
And they echo: ‘He shall die!’
THE HERALD. Now move aside, make way, if you don’t mind:
Something is coming that is not your kind.
A mountainous beast* approaches, if you please,
Its flanks bedecked with gorgeous tapestries;
Two tusks, a snake-like trunk hang from its head;
Mysterious! But such riddles can be read.
High on its back you see a slender beauty sit,
With a slim wand she guides and governs it.
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Up there, too, stands another, ringed with light
And splendour—I am dazzled by the sight.
In chains two women walk, of noble mien,
One at each side, one fearful, one serene:
One wishing, and one feeling herself free.
Let each state her identity!
FEAR. Reeking torch and lamp and light
Glimmer through this feast’s confusion;
Among faces of illusion
I am bound, alas, so tight!
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Foolish jokers thronging round me,
Grinning false seductive smiles!
All my enemies surround me
On this night of treacherous wiles.
This man was my friend: I see
Through him now and his disguise.
That man tried to murder me,
Now he flees from my sharp eyes.
Why can I not get away
From the world? Yet I must stay:
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Doom that hangs above my head
Holds me here in murk and dread.
HOPE. Greetings, sisters! You have spent
These two days in merriment,
In a pleasant masquerade;
But tomorrow you’ll prefer,
I am sure, to be displayed
As yourselves. Indeed, we care
Little for this torchlight scene;
We would wander our own ways
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On the sunny summer days,
Freely through the meadows green,
Single or companioned, choosing
To be active or reposing.
Lacking nothing, free of care,
All we seek is granted there;
Every one a welcome guest,
We may enter where we please,
Seeking happiness with ease,
Sure of finding what is best.
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WISDOM. Let not Fear or Hope infect you!
See, I bring them chained and bound;
Thus—stand back, make way all round!—
From these scourges I protect you.
This great living lump of power,
On his back he bears a tower.
On he plods with steps enchanted,
Uphill, downhill, nothing daunted.
But above his turret’s wall
Stands a goddess with swift wings
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Wide outspread; for so she brings
Ready benefit to all.
Glorious brightnesses surround her,
Flashing far and all around her,
And her name is Victory,
Goddess of all activity.
ZOILO-THERSITES.* HO, ho! It seems I’m just in time
To curse the lot of you! But I’m
Particularly keen to sneer
At Lady Victory up here.
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With her white flapping wings she may
Well think herself a bird of prey,
And as she gazes down so grand,
Fancy she’s queen of all the land.
But where there’s honour and success,
They raise my hackles, I confess.
I’d lift what’s low, put down what’s high,
Make wry things straight and straight things wry:
That’s the one thing that comforts me,
That’s how I want the world to be!
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THE HERALD. Why then, my sacred staff, you low-Born cur, shall strike a master-blow!—
Now writhe and squirm! Now you’re in trouble!—
Ugh! Now that back-and-front dwarf-double
Shrinks to a dirty clod of earth,
Then to an egg; just fancy that!
It swells to bursting and gives birth
To twins: a viper and a bat
Hatch out of it! One slithers back
Into the dust; the other, black
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As night, flits to the roof. Somewhere
Outside, this ill-intentioned pair
Will meet; I’d rather not be there.
MURMURS FROM THE CROWD.
Come, there’s dancing, music’s playing!—
I don’t like this, I’m not staying—
This is creepy; don’t you feel
Spells being woven? It’s not real—
Something’s whirring round my head—
There, you see, my foot feels dead—
We’re not really hurt at all—
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We’re just scared to death, that’s all—
I call this a rotten joke—
It’s those swine, the trickster-folk.
THE HERALD. I have done, since I was made
Herald of the Masquerade,
Duty at each feast as sentry:
Nothing harmful must gain entry
To our place of celebration,
And I stand firm at my station.
Yet through windows, I admit,
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Airy phantoms seem to flit;
There are ghosts and magic here
Which I can’t keep out, I fear.
First, that spooky dwarf; and now
A whole flood of it somehow.
As my office bids, I should
Give you an interpretation
Of these shapes; I wish I could!
They defy all explanation.
Pray assist my ignorance! See,
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Through the crowd—how can this be?—
Floats a splendid chariot,* drawn
By four steeds, easily borne
Through their midst; they need not part
> Or give way. What wizard’s art
Does it?—Far-off glittering
Stars in many colours rise,
Flickering, magic-lanternwise.
What is this storm-snorting thing?
Now I’m scared! Make way now!
THE BOY CHARIOTEER. Whoa-ah!
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Check your wings, my horses; so!
Feel the wonted reins you know;
Rule yourselves as now I rule you,
Leap like fire when so I school you—
Let us pause and pay respect
To this place. Look, they collect
Round us, the admiring crowd.
Herald, come; proclaim out loud,
While we’re with you, who we are,
What we’re like, etcetera.
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Since we’re allegorical,
You, I think, should know us all.
THE HERALD. To describe you I might try;
But that’s not to identify.
THE BOY CHARIOTEER. Try it, then!
THE HERALD. First, I must concede
You’re a young, handsome, halfling boy;
Women must hope to have more joy
Of you when you are fully grown. Indeed,
You are a future lady’s man, I’d say,
A born seducer anyway.
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THE BOY CHARIOTEER.
You are most kind; but pray continue.
Have you this riddle’s pleasant answer in you?
THE HERALD. A jewelled ribbon beautifies Your night-black hair above dark flashing eyes.
And from your shoulders to your feet, how fine
A garment flows, with gems ashine
And edged with purple! Some might say
You’re like a girl; and yet, even today,
For better or for worse, you’d make a good
Impression on the girls—they would,
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I’m sure, teach you your ABC.
THE BOY CHARIOTEER.
And this resplendent figure, who is he,
Who on the chariot’s throne sits royally?
THE HERALD. A prince he seems, rich and a generous giver:
Lucky are those who know his favour.
To gain their wish they cannot fail;
To scan all needs his eyes avail,
And giving is his purest pleasure,
Greater than fortune or than treasure.
THE BOY CHARIOTEER.
Good, but that’s only half your task:
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A full description’s what I ask.
THE HERALD. Such dignity no words can praise.
A moon-shaped visage bright with health,
Full lips, red cheeks, a sun-like gaze
Beneath his jewelled turban’s wealth;
A rich commodious robe. What shall
I say of his demeanour? All
The world must know him as a king!
THE BOY CHARIOTEER. Plutus, the god of riches (for That is his name) in triumph here I bring;
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He is badly needed by the Emperor.
THE HERALD. But tell us now your own identity.
THE BOY CHARIOTEER. I am Profusion, I am Poetry,
The poet who perfects himself the more
He spends from his most precious store.
I too am rich like Plutus, and I hold
Myself his peer in wealth untold.
I enliven his feasts, adorn his dances:
Where his provision lacks, there mine enhances.
THE HERALD. To boast with charm’s your proper part,
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But let us also see your art.
THE BOY CHARIOTEER.
I’ll snap my fingers then; see how lights play
And flicker round the chariot straight away!
Here’s a pearl necklace—out it jumps; and here
Are clasps of gold for neck and ear;
[He continues to snap his fingers in all directions.]
And combs, of course, and diadems,
And gold rings set with priceless gems.
Sometimes I offer flames as well
Where they may kindle, who can tell!
THE HERALD. Now watch it snatch, the foolish mob!
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Even the giver’s having a hard job.
He snaps out trinkets left and right;
It’s like a dream, and they all fight
And grab for them. But what new tricks
Are these? One catches something, picks
It up, and what, for all his pains,
Is the reward? Nothing remains!
The string of pearls has vanished, and
Black beetles scuttle in his hand.
He casts them down, and now instead
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They’re buzzing round his silly head.
And all the rest are fooled likewise,
With monstrous moths their empty prize.
The rogue! He promised them a lot,
And now fool’s gold is all they’ve got.
THE BOY CHARIOTEER.
It seems your herald’s role is to proclaim
The hollow mask, but not to name
The true reality that lies behind;
That is beyond your shallow courtly mind.
But we’ll not quarrel here. To you, my master, I
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Shall turn, and you will make reply.
[Addresnng PLUTUS.]
Did you not give me my four steeds,
This chariot with its whirlwind speeds?
Do I not drive as you command me,
There in an instant where you send me?
And did I not triumphantly
Win you the palm of victory?
How often I have fought your wars,
And every time the day was yours!
The laurel that adorns your brow,
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I wove it, for my mind and hands knew how.
PLUTUS. You are, as I will gladly testify,
Spirit of my spirit, acting ever as I
Would wish; your wealth exceeds my own.
Acknowledging your service, let me bear
Witness that this green laurel bough I wear
Is precious to me like no other crown.
This word I speak to all, and it is true:
Beloved son, I am well pleased in you.
THE BOY CHARIOTEER [to THE CROWD].
Look, now I have distributed
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My greatest gifts: on many a head
A flame that spurted from my hand
Now flickers. Fiery tongues dance round,
Pausing on each of them in turn:
To one they cling, the next they spurn,
But seldom does the fire blaze high
In brilliant bloom that soon will die;
Few even recognize the spark
Before it fails and all is dark.
CHATTERING WOMEN.
Who’s that up there behind, asquat
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The luggage-box? I bet he’s not
The genuine article. A clown,
But hunger and thirst have thinned him down;
We’ve never seen clowns that weren’t fat.
Try pinching him, he’ll not feel that!
THE SKINNY FELLOW*
Disgusting females, let me be!
I know you have no use for me.
Once, Home and Woman meant the same,
And Avaritia was my name;
Those were the days! Good luck about
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The house; lots in and nothing out.
My coffers were well stocked with gold—
I was a mortal sin, we’re told.
But in more recent years, this passion
For saving’s not been woman’s fashion:
Like all bad payers, she has more
Wishes than ducats. It’s a sore
Plight for her husband, he’s beset
On every side by ruinous debt.
Her spinning-money she’ll soon spend
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On clothes and on her fancy friend;
She dines and wines with every sort
Of squire who comes to pay her court.
So I set greater store by gold, being wiser,
And now my masculine name is Miser.
THE LEADER OF THE WOMEN.
Miserly dragon! Let him stick
To his own kind. It’s just a trick
To turn our men against us, though
That’s hardly needful, as we know.
THE CROWD OF WOMEN.
You old straw guy! Old skin and bone!
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How dare he threaten us? Come on,
Give him a slap! That ugly frown
Won’t frighten us. Let’s pull him down!
The dragons are just wood and paper!
THE HERALD. My staff calls order! Stop this caper!—
But my help’s scarcely needed now.
Look at those fearsome monsters, how
Quickly they clear a space, and spread
Their double wings, their claws of dread!
Those scaly dragon-snouts, fire-spitting,
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Chatter with rage. The crowd’s retreating;
It scatters. Now there’s room.
[PLUTUS dismounts from the chariot.]
How like a king
He has dismounted! At his beckoning
The dragons set to work: the chest
Is lifted off at his behest,
Brought to him, set down at his feet,
With gold and miser, all complete.
Now this is a miraculous thing.
PLUTUS [to THE CHARIOTEER].
You have laid down your heavy burden here;
Now you are free to fly to your own sphere,
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For here it is not. Here we are surrounded
By grotesque motley shapes, wild and confounded.
Only where you gaze clear into sweet clarity,
Trusting yourself alone, there you should be:
Where you are yours, the beautiful and the good
Alone can please. There make your world—in solitude!
THE BOY CHARIOTEER.
As your true envoy I esteem myself; so too
I love you as my next of kin. Where you
Dwell, there is fullness; and wherever I
May be, there all I bless and gratify.
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Confused by life, men often hesitate
Whether to serve you, or commit their fate
To me. Your followers of course enjoy
A life of ease, but mine must constantly employ
Their energies. My deeds I cannot hide:
If I but breathe I am identified.
Farewell then, since you grant my happiness: I go,
But I’ll return when you shall whisper so.
[He leaves as he came.]
PLUTUS. Now it is time to set the treasure free.
To strike the locks I take the herald’s stave;
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And they fly open. In bronze vessels, see!