Verse

	TAPSTERS TALE OF MARDUX AND THE SNAKE
	TALE OF THE FAT KNIGHT
	BAKKUS TALE OF ALISAUNDER
	A SONNET CYCLE
	THE CORDELIA GAME
	SONGS AND SONNETS
	ON HAMLET'S LOVE
	ARROWS OF TIME
	OPERATION BLANK
	CLARIBEL AT TUNIS
*Spenser Review Book Prize (read the review)

THE TAPSTER’S TALE OF MARDUX AND THE SNAKE

Be stil, I pray ye, all my lordinges fre,
That for the durance of our sojourning,
Whilst al we have riden and gone by the wey,
Hath suffered this rout hir tales to sing.
Now suffereth me to endite a thing:
A tale I o’erheard in mine hostelry
Of Mardux Babylona’s antient king,
     Who sent his own moder to Tartary,
     And over all the world he held the maistery.

The moder of this Mardux was a snake,
And though he had her body cut in twain,
To think this kilt her was a roy’l mistake;
Hir two parts sev’red soon grew one again,
And teth’red ’neath the city with a chain,
Hir massive bulk she soon began unwind,
Which made the Babyloners muchel pain,
     Then nordward thro the netherworld she twin’d,
     And in her owen net she dragg’d hem all behind.

Marducus gather’d all his counselors;
Unethes could they find a place to mete,
For of the zigereth the rofes and flors
Wer doun, and so they gath’red in the strete.
The paiment hump’d and buckled ’neath hir fet.
Anu said “yit o remedy remayns,
Ere Babylonia’s ruin is complet:
     We mot get Gilgames to cut the chayns
     And whatsoeuer els that Tiamat restrayns.”

And so bid all his counsellouris thre:
That Gilgamesh the hunter shuld be sought,
And made the king Marducus to agre:
The huntir shuld the mysterees be taught,
Wherby the chayns of Tyamat wer caught
Unto the net that holds the cite fast,
And Enkidu his brothir shuld be broght
     Out of the prison wher he had ben cast
     With al dew form and with incontinental hast.

Old Ea, who knew al things known to man,
Said the people blam’d Mardux the kyng,
And in her crombling hovels he began
To call it a dishonourable thing
Doun on her heds the cite wals to thring;
Again his aged moder to go arm’d;
Hir bleding guts throghout the world to fling.
    “The verie wombe his unborne bodie warm’d,
    ’Tis shame,” they say, “that he eternaly hath harm’d.”

Bel, on whos beaute al the peuple doot,
Rais’d up his voys so that the lokers-on
Could in the strete hir conversation noot,
Thought that it was the fell Lebiashon
Who threten’d so the cities fundation,
But ne’ertheles, he was with al agrede
That Gilgamesh and Enkidu anon
     Should armed be and taught to do the dede,
     Because it made him wepe to se his cite blede.

Anon a stedie mesager was sent
To Gilgames his palas on a hil.
Betwene the falling rocks and tres he went,
That, e’en when calm, to clomb tok muchel skil.
Saith Gilgames “another snake to kil?
What do the Bable-ninies want of me?
If Mardux could not kepe his mother stil,
     T'wer altogether bet he let her be.
     If broken chayns they want, let Enkado go fre!”

“The kyng and counsel” said the mesagare,
“For erstwhile service don unto the state,
His pardone bad me to thee to declare,
For his past crimes and mesdemeners late,
In futur more his worth to ruminate,
So long as he do effort mak to pen
     His lusts (apparently insatiate)
     Within the citee brathels, as do other men.”

“Well, be as it be may,” the hunter sed.
“My palas wals methinks begin to crack.
My cokes are burnt, my wifes fall out of bed.
I wil not lieve upon a dragones back,
Or flop upon a donkee lik a sack.
If to the lock kyng Marduc con the way,
To the antipodes or forest black,
     Let him bestow the key and spels to say
     And count him fortunat when counting out our pay.”

To short the tale, I will cut to the chase:
The hunter tutor’d in the mysterie
Of Babel with his brother found the plas,
Soon found the lock and inserted the key.
The dragoon, who for al of history
Lay chayn’d by wisdome and good gouvernaunce,
Was nou agayn fotloos and fancie-fre.
     When ’tween hem she had put a fayr destaunce,
     She smil’d a fangy smil and did a dragoun dauns.

“Gramercie hunters for thy courtoisenes.
Thy cite sits, I fear me, quite upstrem.”
“Thou mayst no longer Babiloon distres;
Kepe thy wayes north to blow thy stynking steem;
Wher they want heet, a zypher may thou seme,”
Said Gilgamesh (his brother threw a boon).
“Alas” she said, “we could have made a team.
Thou Mardux foul ingratitud hath known:
For pangs of labour into derkest prysoun to be thrown.”

With that the worm did torn and wend her way.
Up Tigres did her firy hed avaunce.
Yet did her spiked tail behind her stay,
Both they and she in blishful ignoraunce.
Oh fickel fortun, fait, and hapenstaunce!
The part most poys’nous they shuld overloke!
Oh destinie, stupidite, and chauns!
     For they had left the tripel barbed hooke
     Beneth the toun of Babiloun, and there it stooke.

Round the whole woreld, Tiamat her raige,
Upon the cite and the waled toun
She vents, and yre that no prayr could aswaige.
No weyling babe was worth a grote or croun;
No kyngdom grew but part she swallow’d down,
And with her bely so her hunger grew,
And with her hunger so grew her renoun,
     Until a waled town she slither’d to,
     Protected by a snake she thought she knew.

She fix’d her fangs upon the serpent’s tayl,
As it retraited from her apetight,
And gnash’d and shreded, but to no avayl;
Her en’mie would not deign to torn and fighte.
For it to do so would have ben a sighte!
The face she fac’d would then have ben hir own.
She’d know that, as she toke another byte,
     With al she had alredy swalow’d doun,
     Tiamat returned was back to Babyloun.

Her ends my tale, and bit it whoso wil.
I can’t myself, the Tapster said, alas!
I lack both apetit and shap and skil
To roun the world to din on min own as.
The dragon’s fate her mot I o'erpas.
Some say she did consume her to nothing.
I say: this famous serpent never was;
Marducus was an ordinary kyng;
And hystory hath ben the posy of a ring.

'
Apart from being technically flawless...the conception is extraordinarily clever and beautifully executed: the ancient Babylonian tale of Marduk and Tiamat re-told in a bumptious conflation of Chaucerian and Spenserian lingo. I particularly enjoyed (and admired) the management of the stanza form and the use of the alexandrine to produce punch lines. And it's just a riot, a howl, a gas, to read.' Harry Berger, Jr.

Professor Emeritus, Literature

University of California, Santa Cruz

PROLOGUE TO THE FAT KNIGHTS TALE

Þogh I be shaped in the wast as wel
As Harry Bayly or a chapel bel,
I nam nat ded ne mo þan ȝe nor he,
But onely am to slowe of fote pardee
To ȝif anouþer walkand toure of Frauns
Þe banere of ungentil freends t'avauns.
On tabeles of grenefelds I found my way
To Winsore wher with Shalow I did stay.
Anon he rouned me, for I had sleyd
Oon der of hys, and þer I leve it bled.
Þo Maister Payge me harb’red as hys gest.
What shulde I moore? ye know wel al þe reste:
Þys der I onys lefed lyand ded
Lente me þos hornes to were upon mine hed
Þat I þought to bestow upon mine hoostes.
From þer I tooke my way to foreyn coostes,
Wher I did styl myselve the long lost eme
Of som riche heyress and beguiled them
Of moche gode sak and but a lofe or two
Of daye oulde brede and Fridays oistre sto;
But as for livand lif devoyd of lyes,
Certes haf I lyed her mo than twyes.
Don Platon sayþ that posies ben but japes;
Hem lye ne can who er no bet than apes,
And I wouldst rather tell a thusande mo,
Sikerly, than onys lyde unto.
Ouldcastell tould the troþ, and ye may se
On hym the wages of yowr honeste,
But I am not the man, so Shaksper wroote;
Whoso say nay, hym lyeþ in his þroote.

Her beginneþ þe Fat Knights Tale

Stretch ye þin ers nou to her an old tale
Which for half a pint of Selinus ale
Þe fat knight quoþ þan, þat I shall attest.
Herkneþ nou to who shal harpeþ yow best.
Hym of whos ass ers þe wyf to you tould
Ons al þat he touched tournt into gould
Old Mydas I mene, erstwhil kyng of Troy,
Playing amidest his park as a boy,
Reuling in roses, red, buxom, and gay
Tript o'er a dronken shepherd þat lay
Asnoring as sharp as two English horns
His shepherdis clok torent on þe þorns.
“Aris and awak ye!” cleped þe prins;
“Far fro þy herding þy shep ben long sins;
Þe rauenous wolf and Reynard þe fox
Drawþ cut who shalt sheere hir douny whit lox.
Nou stint ye þe þunderbolt hurlt fro þy noos,
Or wilt ye for fere my favourit roos.”
Upstert þis hapeles shepherd anon,
His garment totottred hanging upon,
Seeing þe prins louring peevish and crost;
Wist him his cas and his carkass was lost.
“O bewray me not,” quoþ he, “to þy fer,
Ne tell ye not þat ye didst find me her,
And teach yow I wil to mak yow a floot
Of hermony coupable, gentil and swoot,
Suffisaunt to ris gret Pan fro his grave,
Unto me erst who þe recipee yave.”
“Gods me forfend shuld I doe such a sin:
Rising fro dust him whom þey haf laid in!”
Cryd prins to shepherd and turnt hym to go.
“Þis trespass þe king al open shul know.”
“No fors, quoþ þe shepherd, for sins tim began,
Gods haf þis privilege let unto man.
Witness adonis, tammuz, and eke bal
Balder, damousi, and osiris al.
Ech yer hem dyeþ when winter doþ rize
Ech yer again born in zephyrus’ brize.
Labour of men and eke prayr of hir prests,
Burning incens, sacrifis of hir bests,
Weping and wayling þen laughter and mirþ:
Man, woman and child do midwif hir rebirþ.
Wonder tis none þey shuld have such a powr,
For as oft þey laid in þe funeral bowr,
Rolling þe stone oer þe mouþ of hir tomb,
Þe self gods whom nou þey bring forþ fro þe womb.
Þan o'er such gods if such sceance we can,
Why frets þou nou o'er þe faery Pan?”
“Content! cried þe prins, save þat it shuld be
Þou who shalt do þis brave office for me;
I care not to touch þat I shul repent
Counting what purchasd, not what is spent.”
Ravelling out is a tedious þyng;
Shortly to say Midas went to þe kyng,
Begging his fader musitians to hire,
Þat hym to harmony bet might aspir,
Which gouerns þe planets, and eke sun and moone
Þat he might lern hym to shepherd more soone
Þe peuple of Troy in pees and content,
Whan he be charg’d unto hir gouernment.
Þys being graunted, þe shepherd he drest
Fit to mak concert amongest þe rest,
Who fashion’d a pipe of þe whispring redes,
Fro which melifluous musick procedes.
Oft tim þis piper abroad might be sene,
Clad al in motly or courtepy grene,
Dancing fore Midas along þe King’s Way,
Afloiting and carping al þe long day.
Some said a þird was sene bringing þe rere:
Manlik, yet goot in fote, tayl, horn, and ere.
Naked he was and eke alway in root
And vanisht wiþ þe musick of þe floot,
But troyans of þis as oon al concurd:
A sweter musick had ne’r yet hem hurd,
Lest it wer orphus or bright phoebos lyr,
Or marsyas’ pipe, þe hapless satyr.
Þey swore it more swote þan þe feonix byrd,
Þ’arabian tree on which may be hyrd.
Many a troyan þus loved þis prins,
Followand murly þe trayn he begins;
Many a youþ didst his styl emulat,
Studyand musick fro erly to lat,
Makand of instrumaunts drum, stryng, and wynd.
Nary a troyan of hem culd be find,
Who knew not þe octaves and ek þe skale
Save midas þe prins alon of hem alle.
Hym þought it not wis to meddle wiþ þyngs
Magick or pluck spirits up by þe strings.
As for þys shepherd, hym led such a lif:
So fre fro hardshipis, hungir ne strif
Longand his mysterie and eke his berþ,
Sins shepherdis fyrst gan wander þe erþ;
Hym yerned somwis þis favour repaie.
Unto dynysos as þus gan hym pray:
“Graunt ye to midas, whan he becom kyng,
Hys fondeste wish, þough it be anyþing.”
Sooþ to say Bacus lou’d þys Troian wight;
Mydas his chayrte was goode in hys sight;
Wherfore upon hys coronation,
Of al þe troy rout he made hymsilf oon,
Who came to do midas hir obeisaunce,
Drynk win, play musicke, reuel and ek dauns.
Whan at þe last dionys shewed hys face,
Midas wist well he nas mortal of race
“Hayl to ye sire whomso’er þou might be,”
Clept midas to baccus, “say unto me
Unto þy godhed soe’er I might do;
I shal you comply wiþout wordes mo,
If þat it lay in my power iwis.
Tel us fayr straunger þy desyeris.”
“Sin þat,” quoþ bakkus, whan þou wert a prins,
Yeving por shepherdis honour long sins,
Whom unto disgras þou might have bewrayd,
Þys fredom of hert I wil haf repayd.
Oon wish graunt I þee,” quoþ Dionysus,
“Þinkest þou carefully or er ye chus.”
Semest king midas þat it were not wis
To make oerhasty þe chois of hys pris,
Doing instead to þe bright deity
His devoir in right hospitality,
Bid hym abid at þe festing wiþal
And be lord of misrule her in his hal.
“Gramercy,” he said, “I may not abid.
Þy hall is nowis sufficiently wid
Ne floors of ston my ruels to compass.
Onely barfot on grene moysty gras
May I be mayster of reuelis gay.
Out by þe surf wer my mynadis stay
Þer mayst þou find me whan þou knowst þy hest
Mongest me loyl pilgrim company blest...

Bakkus Tale of Alisaunder

The stories that were told to us
Of Achilles and Odyssus
Some says hem ben none hystoree
And none swich men han eer yit bee.
That cite that we callen Troy
O war alon could neer destroy
And neer yit did o thusand shippes
For plunder of o womans lippes
Lay siege upon a walled town
And rent both spar and rafter down.
Swich fooles as hem so would agre
With Platonis philosophe
Who ever doubted Homers sawe
In giving to the Troth his Law.
So they supposen that the tale
Of Jonas in the mighty whale
Of which the mighty scriptur telleth
The truth of things somewhat excelleth.
They tak it for mere parabaile
That Jesu nedeth ship ne saile
To goth upon the waters wide
Right so hem make his woundes to blied.
Right so hem doubten Homerus
His tale of weyard Odysus.
For hem I yif a bottle fly
Nor Ilid nor that Odyssy
To pawn for al her painful witte
No Muse upon hath smiled yit.
I hold it for no feigned fable
Homer was a poet able
Tho blind fro birth yet could he se
Fer bet than Oedipus pardee
Could se the blind Telemakus
Than all her wittes that clepen thus.
Of Alisaund wil I depos
Who comet lik o’er earth aros
And put it under might and awe
And eke o gouernaunce and lawe
Ere oure lorde and sauiore
By milde Mary was ybore
Thre hundreth yers. Whan a yung man,
To study Alasand began
The wisest Athennes culd offre.
Aristot the philosophre.
O day this Makedonian youth
Askt “in what countrey dwelleth Trouth?
Dost lif in Grece or ferre away?
Or up aboue as Socrate did say?
If in heuen, I doe contend,
I will betake at worldis ende,
The milch whit strete wher, maugre Mars,
Sir Troth persue I mid the starres!”
Quoth Aristot “that shalt not need.
Swallow not whole ech boke thou red
Without thou ruminate awhil.
Platon wrote with o’ermuch skil
The wordis that him Socrat yede;
He writ for folk as Socrat bede,
With many a tale and parabel derk.
Yit men mot dik and delve and werk
In his Republic, but a few
May seek the Troth thou wouldst pursew.
Whateer to Platon heven was worth
He set his Republic firme i’ th’earth
His kingedome was of this world pardee
As is his fame as well ye see.
“This Aristot” thought Alyxand tho
“Bejapeth me with resons soo.
Though fader paye him ne’er so wele
Onely a braying asse wold telle
Al that he can in o single yer.
I mot either abid to her
The total som of al his witte
Or seke a nerre path to it.”
Th’old philosophre kept his bookes
At th’agora chayn’d to hookes
Watch’d by a Grecian student or two:
Pampred sonnes of the well to do
Of Athens who couth no artes of were;
On hir face were nor berd nor her.
He paid a man to go unsene And copy of hym al he ken;
At night hymself crept to the plas
Th’old mans seruants did her gras
To guard his bokes of taxomy. ...

1
I cannot look upon this breaking light
With newborn undiscriminating eyes,
Which should his magnanimity requite
With tears of awe which on my cheek he dries.
These tears are for my love, whom I must leave,
Much like the sun withdraws up from the sea
Whom he of his high glory doth bereave
To mount the utmost heights of vanity.
Those birds whom yet old night doth shroud in black,
Coursing to south in autumn’s pre-dawn chill,
Do merely flee the specter at their back;
They think not on what land they come until,
But this sun lights my course towards bitter cold;
Whilst bygone night doth all my comfort hold.
2
‘Tis not comfort alone I grieve
Obscur’d in darkness that behind me lies
Now and forever, but that I must leave
The sight of thee that ever glazed mine eyes:
The only sweetness to my bitter day,
Nor grieve I my lost comfort any less,
Rememb’ring friends that still with thee do stay;
Who thy sweet pictur’d memory oppress,
While, as the painter races ‘gainst the light
That shrouds his subject in obscurity,
Mine eyes race ‘gainst my thoughts to find thy sight
The bright day darkening thy memory,
But thy heart’s picture time doth not obscure;
‘Tis drawn in all I see that is most pure.
3
Thy purity of heart can not prevent
The World’s intrusion, or defend
Its walls from what thy flawless eye hath lent,
The which thy flawless heart must needs attend.
As deep as beauty penetrate thine eye,
So deep must thou accompany their fall,
Whom next the sun thy heart hath blown too nigh
(Despite these which thou canst not but recall).
So too, your memory defends you not
(As memories of you defend not me);
The way to fall is with the fall forgot,
Should beauty plead anew but half his plea.
O let not harder hearts and more attaint
Joy more in beauty than its living Saint!
4
My love shall set sweet measure to the pace
That beauty’s Saint, though far from me, shall go,
For only this is its especial grace:
Its harmony all gratis to bestow,
Regardless of long season and distance
That do my loved objects far remove;
The autumn leaves fall not but merely dance
To earth, escorted by my love;
So doth the maiden of the Zodiak
Who lures the jealous sun towards the west,
And never may I coax her footsteps back,
Once she and starry night go to their rest;
Yet to her nether courses can I lend
But sweet imagin’d measures without end.
5
Sweet Eros then (my agent) set before
Thine eyes most beauteous a lovers’ pageantry:
One comedy complete, still follow more,
As notes in love’s celestial melody,
And leave not himself himself to portray,
When he from Psyche hid his godly hue;
Nay, this is but an old history play:
Not tragic as this tale of Love be true.
Though with her weeping sisters she take part,
And though she break the seal forged in hell,
Great Jupiter can look into her heart,
And in the final act, he makes all well,
And when I view her image in the sky,
In Psyche’s form thy gaze shall meet mine eye.
6
I said and spread my sails before the wind
And, weeping, turn’d me toward the open sea:
Darkness before, and you and love behind,
Dancing in twilight’s crimson pageantry.
And those dim stars I thought should lend me light
As yet remind me of my weary pace:
That I may not with winged speed take flight
In no celestial Maiden’s sweet embrace;
I sail upon no God-boat, nor no Ark;
I seek nor Fish nor far off gold-fleec’d Ram;
The faery heavens leave me cold and dark;
There be nor light nor love soe’er I am!
My course dim stars of autumn serve to light
To winter’s brighter stars and longer night.
7
To the north sits the Leucadian height
From where Plato’s tenth muse in days of yore,
For lack of her beloved boatman’s sight,
Didst find her fever’s end too far from shore,
Nor could her books escape mortality,
To tell the world what true love was of old;
They live each other’s witness not to be,
By fire quench’d and ocean’s dateless cold.
Then happy I that shall not find thee drown’d,
Nor find thy book of love consum’d with flame;
In melancholy black is never found
True beauty or true love’s true sacred name,
So neither smoke nor ocean’s pitchy deep
Are fitter than black ink thy heart to keep.
8
So Lesbos’ sacred fount of love music,
Acquainted with her cousin Dido’s grief,
Did play the trickster Cupid her old trick
And stole a golden arrow from the thief.
Her books, like Dido, cast upon the pyre
To gods of harmony for offerings,
With love she feeds the sacrificial fire;
Her flesh the salty god of strife she flings,
But my love lives, though laid upon the rack;
Each mile I sail from thee doth stretch my pain
And of my heart the jointures seem to crack,
Which floods sweet Sappho’s music in my brain;
Her soul that from the salt sea doth arise
Inspires tears in tortur’d lovers’ eyes.
9
As Venus’ priestess, so her mortal son
Did ride the crests of earthly destiny:
He Italy, as she Parnassus won;
E’en so did both attain love’s victory,
But Venus’ other son no tickling wound
Delivers with his fell unbated dart,
So deep no poet ever yet did sound;
No boatman e’er yet conquer’d his own heart.
When Carthage the Italian forsook,
Her heart with Sappho’s bitter salt was sown
And from the death white pages of her book,
Hath nought but Dido’s pregnant silence grown,
So salt sea and salt tears preserve for me
Love’s feast or Venus’ barren destiny.
10
Anon the bloodshot lord of day still grac’d
With lighting thy beauty in the evening skies
Shall blow my mouth with low tide’s fishy taste
And with his night’s excesses hurt mine eyes.
The song of Sappho may her comfort bring
To Dido’s shade, as through black Dis they pace,
Whose echo earthly lovers yet do sing,
A record dateless death doth ne’er erase.
Still only to the sea make I my moan;
In ocean’s glass rehearse my tragedy.
Oh double tragedy itself alone
Might better drown itself in its self sea.
Oh happy they that still do hope for peace
That they may yet in death find their release.
11
But how could providence write such an end,
Or sign its name to such a tragedy?
Love’s wrongs are not to weep but still to mend,
As naught but dark can teach the eye to see.
Though all roads still lead southward from the pole,
Yet must they northward turn in course of time,
So day must break the dark night of my soul
(Though love my heart so oft the clock doth chime).
His compass’ broken needle pointing aft
Will one day prove itself the truly wise
And prove a fool the pilot of my craft
(Still reckoning with dead and sightless eyes).
Though earth be flat it boots not to complain
Soe’er it sets my sun shall rise again.
12
And yet if earth be round it follows not
That time therefore must to her shape conform,
Who makes my poor craft’s pining boards to rot
Besetting me with fears at every storm.
Though sun doth rise, his course ever declines
Each day my mem’ry of thine eyes doth dim.
With colder light on colder heart he shines
And beckons stooping thoughts to follow him.
When seasons he to his high course restore,
He shall no longer need their company
Or drooping backs that erst his burden bore:
‘Twas but compulsion not fidelity.
What hope I from the turning earth may learn,
The rising of the sun doth straightly burn.
13
‘Tis this alone that doth disturb the dance
(Else wouldst all pace in perfect harmony):
That Time, ever the Chamberlain of Chance,
To life and death doth both midwifery.
Though summer’s tripping step may bring the fall,
And winter’s hibernation rise to spring
Time doth all choreography appall
And breaks asunder his own reckoning.
If all were harmony, then harmony
Itself would seem but dead and still
So Time must play the fell adversary
And rhythm, rhyme, and measured reason kill.
My love from my love whom Time made away
To my love Time alone restore yet may.
14
What boots it thus of Time so to complain,
Or with pale thought to challenge his behests?
He drives my summer thoughts with autumn rain
Washing away my fond imagin’d rests.
The porpoise that my craft erst did convey
Seek prospect better than my company,
And shanty songs my crew were wont to play
Drown out beneath the violence of the sea.
My ship like justice’ scales in time of war
Tips to and fro with every passing wave
‘Till fondly I abuse myself no more
With images of thee or earthen grave.
In courts of love ‘gainst Love we dare not sue
So in due time then Time must have his due.
15
A tempest threats to blow me on the shore
Where Time himself in living memory
Once came full stop; ‘twas doubt he would restore,
So poets write, his tragicomedy.
Small wonder my small bark should’st run aground,
Mere jetsam cast away to clear his deck,
To old Atlantis obscure and profound
To drench in ruins with a broken neck.
Why wish I at such times thou wert with me,
Although to have thee here would mean thine end:
To thy dead corse to be its Antony
Not glad thou now may find a wiser friend?
Thy happiness this comfort to me gives
Though my body die, yet my love still lives.
16
Not thine Aeneas, Phaio, Antony,
But Charon to myself enforc’d to play,
Black Styx the roaring midnight sea,
These waves the damned souls portray,
Who moaning cast on me their briny tears;
Because they could not pay the carriage charge,
They languish in the flood a million years,
Or vainly cast themselves into my barge.
Their jealous fellows drag them roughly back
For fear one lucky soul should stow away,
Or else they pry apart some warping crack,
In sinking me to make their getaway.
More like it is with them the depths I plumb
Then in my boat they reach Elysium.

OPERATION BLANK

Myths are words and change color like the sea. They wash the blood from the ruins below, And make them shine like Atlantis. Their surface colors variegate, Opposing but never erasing, Vast, seamless, disinterested. Another War moves past like waves, The colors of its surface unfamiliar, But the same sea moved with the same wind Over the same ruins. Forget the past, we repeat it; Remember the past, we know we repeat it. Waves repeat; tides repeat; And so, it seems, does War. Are these the gods? How could gods be so predictable?

ARROWS OF TIME

How did Stonehenge stand so long When an hour can do for such megaliths? Watching them fall I fell into a great abyss, The solid ground beneath my feet Melted away Revealing a void: infinite below as above. But it was only entropy: Fifty thousand computers turned to rubble. There is no Terrorist but Newton; A grim archer loosing the arrow of time Through the sweat shop of history, Getting richer as the poor get poorer. Should I mourn? Mourn mudslides and monsoons Earthquakes and epidemics? Should I hate? Evil: faceless? voiceless? pointless? Isn't it just the price of Good? Should I fear? It's only entropy Moving the arrow of time From past to future. Even Stonehenge must fall in the end. Another level is laid over Troy The mass grave of humanity Crushed into a single mummy: A king’s burial mound Stocked with spoils and weapons, Swords that couldn't break Newton’s law Shields that couldn't stop time's arrow, But only strengthen its resolve.

The arrows let fly aimlessly

Around the surface of the globe

Pass through their children

And strike the archers from behind.

Thus we lead the world to victory

Against its bitter enemy mankind.

SONGS AND SONNETS

To what forsaken frigid wilderness
Hath now fled love from poaching enemies,
Who by his shadows dark and patternless
Do measure him in points?
Through thick’ning trees
He plunges to the center of my mind,
Within the darkness of my darkest thought,
Where ‘tis his sole advantage to be blind,
And where the hunters’ prey is dearly bought.
So temperate sunlight warms the blackest wold,
While regions roofless and inhabited
Are bit with winter’s penetrating cold
Whose unattended cage lies shattered.
So love wears out his exile day by day,
‘Til hunters, I and darkness pass away.

When sense perceives the source of all increase
Within itself, itself the counterfeit
Of tangibility, all longings cease
Save One, for faery spirits’ ghostly heat
To melt away the numbing cold embrace
Of melancholy thoughts, but Ignis’ flare
Enflames the mind with evanescent grace,
Whose bolt which leaping forth to mount the air
May tear through elements more temperate,
To wither roses that attract its arc,
Or plow a path in landscapes desolate
And seek in vain in hissing steam its spark
To quell. As cooling waters ember’s glow
Destroys, itself passion’s eyes never know.

Were I possessed of some solid land
To lay mine hand upon, though flesh more hers
Than mine, which yieldeth not as sand to sand,
Nor sea to sea, nor Truth to Universe,
But resists with opposed equal force
Both touch and sight, reflecting sound and light,
An army could I raise of man and horse
To seize by force what reason lost and fight
For passions’ prize and justice’ sov’reignty.
As I, like Pharaoh, lead my faithful host
No holy hand holds back the raging sea
Which forth or to the rear presents no coast.
Momentum only holds me o’er the main
In which I must perforce submerge again.

He should be happy who thinks least on love,
To see the earth fix'd like a glacial stone,
Blue sea below, blue firmament above,
A marble king astride a marble throne,
But I am not the master of my mind.
At what mine eyes gaze, I cannot but see.
I cannot take aught but the road I find,
And my heart cannot its imprison’d free.
A perfume fragrance spreading through a room
May never to its vial return again.
All voyages must come to port in doom,
And love will ever be the anchor chain.
There are some knots that never will untie,
Though you and I and all the world must try.

Turn thou thy sharpen'd speare aside from me
Ere pierce it through the deepest of my heart.
So please you set your unbid captive free
As was Ariel by Prospero's art.
Albeit that thou hast no memory
Full often in my thoughts did we converse
Concerning flakes and tatters through which I
Might touch the distant fleeting universe
How is it thou, the mirror of my soul
Reflectest no soul's images at all?
No human heart was e'er created whole.
No human stands that does not stand to fall,
As I upon thy heart's rocks broken lay,
'Til by life's frigid ocean swept away.

Though men confuse there are two sep’rate ways
To love that which the longing eye beholds;
He either joys his heart with humble gaze,
Or he in earthly arms his love enfolds.
Though he in doting on sweet sunsets swell
Do singe his too fond instruments of sight,
A man may ne'er embrace that fiery hell
No more than moth a waxen candle light;
But happy are the earth bound lovers' days
Who may in peace triumphantly embrace
The object of their eyes' most highest praise.
Theirs is the highest state of Venus' grace,
For as they watch him rising in the east,
The sun himself is at their wedding feast.

To stand at once apart alone and pure
Among the few had ever been my woe.
And though they sought true exile to endure,
From exile into exile would I go
To leap into the garden of your love,
My soul to find the rarest flower there
Whose scent alights upon her from above
And turns our banishment to dark despair
(As I, her yeoman, share my mistress’ fate).
Each night I set her solitary camp
Beside the cruel wall and locked gate
To beg the alms of those who bear the stamp
Of your affection as they come and go,
And tales of gardens we shall never know.

Whene'er in June I thought upon July,
Or tuning out some tedious teacher let
Imagination go, out it would fly,
Invariably by your side to set.
My soul enrob'd in silken reverdie
Would ride aloft on warm sweet summer air;
My jealous mind refus’d to set it free,
And ever called it back to earthly care.
Why has God hous'd these still despitous foes
Within such weak and tender flesh as this?
How clam'rous their belabor'd discourse grows,
While I some fine pedantic wisdom miss;
And each of them to me will only say
That he must win the argument someday.

THE CORDELIA GAME

(How to end a Shakespeare work in the first act)

Venus and Adonis

Over one arm the lusty goddess' leg,

In his other hand her tender breast

He blush'd but did not stop to beg,

Or deign her fickleness to test;

She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,

He frosty in shame, but red hot for desire.

Rape of Lucrece

This earthly devil, adoring this saint

Little deceiveth her virtuous mind

For stained thoughts are so used to their taint;

The herdsmen their own odour never find:

Revolted thus she turneth him away

And bids him with his horse in stable stay.

Comedy of Errors

Aegeon: My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,

At eighteen years became inquisitive

After his brother: and importuned me

That his attendant--so his case was like,

Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name--

Might bear him company in the quest of him:

Duke Solinus: Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;

Thy wife's name thou didst not tell unto us

Aeg: Her name when I knew her was Aemelia

Duke: That name sounds curiously familiar

And what of those four twins of Syracuse;

What titles now do they all choose to use?

Aeg: My sons both are Antipholus by name

By Dromio their men are called the same

They all are of the age of twenty three

And otherwise they look a lot like me.

Duke: Well by God's sonties that's a funny thing

And in my head methinks a bell doth ring

We have one here among in Ephesus

That goes by the name of Antipholus

He hath a servant of his age or so

That he calls Romeo or Dromio

Etc.

ON HAMLET'S LOVE (An Exchange)

Ophelia's Hamlet's true love so it seems

Though love is doomed by ponderous demands

"Obeyed" most swiftly in successive scenes

Two summonses to seal two deadly hands

We enter on love's after-death decreed

By Denmark's principalities and powers

But every utterance suggests love's seed

Was sown before those om'nous opening hours

Poor Howard was all wrong re: Hamlet's love

He wondered if the Prince loved anyone

Well if Horatio was not enough

Add in Ophelia before Act One

In any case this is my pleasant dream

As I row down a star-crossed lovers stream-- Stephen C. Rose

If Hamlet love Ophelia in thy dreams,

She loves him all too wisely but not well,

And if a bit particular it seems,

He damn her with dissemblers to hell,

Or to a nunnery, 'tis not amiss.

All Elsinore's a stage and all its troop

Still bait his trap with each embrace and kiss

And only but to conquer to him stoop.

'Tis quite enough to drive a jester mad,

Or make the very ink weep off the page,

To look upon the friends we thought we had

As unconvincing actors on a stage.

Though, as a madman, he must play his role,

A nunnery yet might have saved her soul.

CLARIBEL AT TUNIS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
OROSCO King of Tunis
ALONSO King of Naples.
HARRANUS Tunisian High Priest of Juno
ANTONIO Duke of Milan.
SEBASTIAN Brother to Alonso.
PTOLEMY An evil old Counsellor of Tunis
GONZALO An honest old Counsellor of Milan
CLEON A Sicilian Captain TANIBAL Minion of Orosco and son of Astria

JUDAS |

Lords.

FLAMANCO |

AMPHIDAMAS a Jester.

CORNELIUS a drunken Butler.

MASTER of the Revels.

CLARIBELQueen of Tunis and daughter to Alonso.

ANNA a good priestess

ASTRIA an evil priestess

ERUS a succubus

CHAOS |

EREBUS |

HECATE | a hallucination

Sabines |

Centaurs |

Poet. Players. Other Spirits attending on Astria.

SCENE Tunis ACT I SCENE I In a theater in the royal palace: a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard. Curtain reveals Alonso, Ferdinand, and Gonzalo talking with Harranus, Claribel and Anna, and Sebastian and Antonio talking with Orosco, Ptolemy and Tanibal while actors bang on tabors and a bull roarer.

[Enter Master of Revels and a Poet]

Master Poet!

Poet Here, master: what cheer?

Master Good, speak some lines to this dumb show; fall to’t yarely,

For the audience being well feasted and garrulous does not attend: bestir. [Exit]

Poet Through the darkest mists of dis eternal

The sibyl leads the man of destiny Into silent regions infernal

Where dwells his erstwhile queen of infamy…

ALONSO Good poet, what’s the matter with these drums?

Poet I pray now, keep silent.

ANTONIO Where is the master, poet?

Poet Do you not hear him?

You mar our labour: hold your tongues.

GONZALON ay, good, be patient.

Poet When the play is done. Hence!

(aside) What cares these roarers for the name of art?

To your seats: silence! trouble us not.

GONZALO Good, yet remember for whom thou dost perform.

Poet None that I more love than myself.

You are a counsellor; if you can command

these revelers to silence, and work the peace

of the present, we will not hand a tabor more; use your authority:

if you cannot, make yourself ready

for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.

Cheerly, good hearts! Out of our way, I say. [Exit]

GONZALOI have great comfort from this fellow: methinks that Diffidence shall never curb his art;

his complexion is perfect gallows.

Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable.

[Re-enter Poet]

Poet Now widow Dido’s eyes like burning coals

Upon the hero's words seem to ignite…

[A peal of laughter from the audience]

A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the tabor or our office.

[to the audience]

Yet again! what do you here?

Shall we give o'er and drown?

Have you a mind to sink us?

SEBASTIAN A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Poet Work you then.

ANTONIO Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker!

We have better poets at home than thou art.

GONZALO I'll warrant him for giving over;

though the play were no better than a morris

and as stale as a mummy’s cake.

Poet As when the Grecian poet Orpheus

Had turned to see Eurydice descend…

Players: All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

Poet What, must our mouths be cold?

[exit actors and poet]

GONZALO ‘Twas a sorry choice for a wedding feast

It shouldst have been Aeneas in the cave

Shelt’ring with the Carthaginian queen.

OROSCO Not, I think, in the court before ladies!

Do they do so in golden Italy Good Gonzalo?

GONZALO No, not within the court.

PTOLEMY In Italy your highness I have heard

The theaters are little better than stews.

And therefore do they keep them far from court.

ANTONIO While here in Tunis, or so I’ve been told

The punks go by the name of priestesses,

And all the bawdy houses in the town

Are found under the sign of the Temple.

HARRANUS I’m afraid that you have been much abused.

The religion, superstition I mean,

That worships the black faced god Setebos

Has for many years been driven from hence

By the mighty hand of ancient Juno.

All his temple and its idolatry

Blown to dust.

STEPHANO Well, without bawdy houses

The housewives must debauch themselves in faith

Unless the young men take to pasturing.

HARRANUS My good Sebastian and Antonio

I pray you for these virgin maidens here

Kindly season your fine Italian wit With some discretion.

ANNA Fear me not my lord. Juno’s veil of chaste fidelity

Defends me from the mere air’s corruption

Of their too hot words.

CLARIBEL And I assure thee Good Harran that long use has made me

Deaf to such prating.

GONZALO But for the marriage.

It bodeth naught but well for the future Of our two peoples.

TANIBAL (aside) That may well be so

For the present savoreth naught but ill.

Here in this marriage am I confounded.

ANTONIO Africa is in Claribel most blest.

ALONSO Thou speakest most wisely Antonio.

If in our long divided histories

Lawless fortune bestowed her favors ill

Between us, through malice or indifference,

Her designs by this union we defeat

Twining in a single unyielding cord

Our fragile threads of separate destiny.

PTOLEMY The past is as a winter’s night to us In the north:

too long for sleep but soon forgot In the summer sun.

‘Twas a sweet marriage; And may ye prosper well in your return.

[Exeunt all but Ferdinand and Claribel]

FERDINAND How likes you the name of queen good sister?

I shall never get used to “your highness.”

This is a noble monarch has wed you

And this a noble kingdom you possess.

CLARIBEL For the kingdom, it is too hot and dry

And for the king, I fear me much the same.

He would not kiss my lips before the priest

But put up his ivory fan between us

As if to ward off flies.

FERDINAND Good Claribel,

Remember thou art in a foreign land

And may no longer look on Tunis With the eyes of Naples. Good my sister,

Thou must learn to look upon fair Naples

With the eyes of Tunis and on Tunis

With the eyes of thy worshipful subjects.

The greatness of this kingdom dost belie

The shameful decimation of its past.

Whose inward battle scars may yet appear

From time to time.

CLARIBEL My darling Ferdinand

If the strangeness of my liege Orosco

Is owing to the custom of the place

I fear the worship of my good subjects

May be more than I can in patience bear.

[Enter Alonso]

FERDINAND Now I can see that you do speak in jest.

But attend: here comes our royal father.

ALONSO We will go aboard at once Ferdinand.

The mariners say the wind has shifted

And that the good fortune that did attend

Our arrival hither now sits poised

To carry us homeward. Bid thee farewell

To thy dear sister. The gods only know

When ye shall meet again, or in what state.

FERDINAND With all my heart: fare thee well Claribel.

Now thou art queen. When I one day am king,

We shall sit together as we used to

And play at chess.

CLARIBEL And now that I am queen,

I’ll have you took to prison when you cheat.

[They embrace; exit Ferdinand]

ALONSO Now daughter, before I depart from thee

Know ye that in wedding thee royally

I have defied the general counsel

Of all Italy. It behooves thee then,

And me that the savor of this union

That wafts the breezes ‘twixt here and Naples

Blows ever sweetly. Whatsoe’er reports,

I shall not name them, I had in Naples

Have been bottled and must not be uncorked

In a foreign court where rumor is the trade

And malice hides in every other heart.

CLARIBEL I don’t recall my counsel being craved

And therefore cannot say it was defied.

One day I was told that a foreign king

Had fell in love with my mere description

Anon the news was brought me I was sold

For certain ducats to an African.

If any of those in fair Italy

Who objected to this marriage

Find some cause to complain of it to thee

‘Tis sure theirs will be easier heard than mine

Enforced so to waft it such a space.

If I protect my reputation here,

It won’t be for thy reputation’s sake

But seeing I’m abandoned to my fate,

An exile, to shift in strange company,

My good name must be my sole defender.

For though this Orosco once plighted troth

To the mere sound of Claribela’s name

He has no more love for the sight of me

Than I for Africa. But that for this gold

Thou hast sold off some of thy peace of mind

Offends not me.

ALONSO The time’s come to hold thy peace.

The fleet awaits and thou must stay behind.

I have made thee a queen in my life time

And raised thee up unto a lofty height

From which thou mayest look upon the gods

Unobstructed, whose gaze was ever fixed

Before upon the creatures of the earth.

I have done by thee a father’s office

And set thee within the highest aerie.

Whither thou fly from here, belong to thee.

As queen thou must now see me aboard ship

And bless the fleet that carried thee hither. [Exit]

CLARIBEL And may I never curse my blessing back.

[Exeunt]

ACT I SCENE II

OROSCO I swear I would the sea had swallowed up

All of the petty kings of Italy

And had good hope it would do for this fleet,

It stormed so much the day before they came.

When yesterday I saw the sea was calm,

I cracked my breath in futile sorcery

Casting to make the waves recall their rage,

But to no effect.

TANIBAL If from my mother

The amulet she wears about her neck

I might possess, a tempest could I raise

From which the hoary Poseidon himself

Would shelter at the bottom of the sea.

The fleet being sunk and no one knowing

Beyond Tunis whether she were aboard

We then could murder the Italian whore

And none be in Italy the wiser.

OROSCO I do not think Astria’s love so great

For thee it would not turn thee to a toad For attempting it.

[enter Astria]

ASTRIA My right ear dost burn.

Were you speaking of me just now?

Come, come.

OROSCO We were in faith discussing if thy skill

Were great enough to raise a storm at sea

Sufficient for to sink these foreign ships.

ASTRIA Were I to tell what lay in my power,

‘Twere as good as say what does not.

And that must no one know who can’t keep counsel.

Tell me my liege, thy royal majesty,

Is this a way to spend thy wedding night?

To guess thy practice here needs no magic.

Thy queen no doubt awaits thee in her bed.

‘Tis she not Tanibal (whatsoever else

Of thee he may) must bear thy heir.

When erst thou didst dwell in obscurity

Under my roof, far from the eyes of court

Thou not so much as clothed thy nakedness;

Now thou hast donned the borrowed robes of state

Thou art exposed to the general view

And must live as if ever on a stage

Before an audience that loves thee not.

That I might with ease drench the foreigners

What of it? Why in faith would I do so

When it was I who set the friendly winds

That carried them in and out of Tunis?

Think not therefore it would not make me smile

To see them in my glass made food for sharks,

But rather that to send them to their peace

Were but a poor and sorry recompense

For a mother’s death and a brother’s shame.

I would have them live to spread abroad the fame

Of fair Tunis and of their Claribel’s Happy marriage.

Tell me Orosco: Dost thou recall the fair queen thy mother?

OROSCO I remember that she carried me about

Swaddled in a pouch against her sweet breast

From whence I was by rude hands snatched away.

ASTRIA That was by the rude hand of Sycorax

My mother who like yours is now long dead

Though not a queen, the greatest sorceress

Who ever served a queen in Africa.

OROSCO I remember her well Astria.

TANIBEL I too, and that she was not the fairest

Of the ladies of the court at that time.

The veil she claimed for her religion

Concealed wisely a multitude of sins.

ASTRIA She was high priestess of great

Setebos Whose icon in the temple first she set

That she had carried hence from fair Algiers

Of the triple fac'd and pale Diana

When erst it stood beside the royal court

Before Harran, your good great uncle, Tanibal,

Affecting piety but feeling naught

But hot ambition, having once reclaim'd

The rituals of Juno long forgone,

By Sycorax our mother’s sorcery

Inflamed the people to rebellion

Against her and her high religion.

OROSCO Oh treacherous and ignominious!

ASTRIA They spared not in their tempestuous rage

One stone of chaste Diana’s sanctity,

And would my dam have riven of her life

Had not I, then a girl, implored the queen.

She had her merely exiled to Algiers

But Harran rightly fearing of her ire

Sent ahead proofs of her negromancy

And where she had once so well served the state

There into darkest prison was she thrown.

TANIBAL Didst thou not tell me once my granddam died

Upon an island in the western sea

On which my uncle Caliban was born?

ASTRIA Tis so. When in Algiers, I know not how

After a year without her liberty

Whether by her art as it was accused

Or by some more natural agency

She was within her dungeon found with child,

The fear was that some devil would be spawn'd

But they too proved coward or unapt

To slay her outright. Alleging service

She had done the state, they set her ashore

Upon an island as yet uncharted.

To undergo the pains of labor sharp

Assisted by her sorcery alone

OROSCO I’m sorry now I treated her so ill,

When I was just a child still in her care

In mocking when she flashed her toothless grin

Ignorant what later would befall her.

ASTRIA They shall be sorry enough in Tunis

Of the forsaken groans of Sycorax.

Had not good Ptolemy her erstwhile priest

Supplied her with his spirit Ariel

And talismans and implements and books

Of the philosophy of Setebos

She surely would have perished in childbirth.

But Ariel enforced to midwife

Revolted at the sight of Caliban

All bloody shrouded in his afterbirth

Enforced from our mother’s gaping loins

And though she languished in the wilderness

In pain and illness, the squeamish spirit

No longer served her ‘hests as he was bid

But put instead a feigned madness on.

Weak’ning fast and knowing that her death was near

She made provision for her infant son

Encaging the sprite in a cloven pine

And secreting her books and implements

Within an island cave until such time

As Caliban should grow into manhood

And by the one, the other learn to rule.

TANIBAL But tell me my dear mother whence it is

That thou hadst this remote intelligence?

ASTRIA From Ariel himself who did return

When from his tree he was at last excised

But not by Caliban on embassage

Unto his fair sister with tidings glad,

But being sent by cursed Prospero

Upon some petty errand to the east

To Tunis deigned himself to make detour

To taunt his erstwhile master Ptolemy

(Their concourse I by magic overheard)

That into bondage vile had Caliban

Perpetu’lly been drawn while Ariel

Would by his new found master soon be free.

Though Prosp’ro doth possess the legacy

Bequeath’d unto my brother now enslav’d,

And no means may his power oversway,

Still I have vowed to pay my mother’s debt

Unto his daughter’s new won heritage.

That Italy he strives so to reclaim

Shall breed corruption in her inward parts

Whose shame by silence shall fester apace.

There shall I set the hot and moisty sprites

That on the neck of earthy Erus hang

At liberty to ply their subterfuge

Where their deceptions are as yet unknown.

TANIBAL They shall with all their chaste hypocrisy

Trick them their own scourges to become.

OROSCO But I am to inherit in Naples

Through Claribel if Ferdinand miscarry.

Was not this why thou bid’st me overthrow

My marriage pledge unto the priestess Ann

Spite of Harranus and old Ptolmy’s oath

Unto my mother queen and priestess high of Juno?

ASTRIA Ptolemy made no such oath,

But when he learned of Sycorax’s death

And Caliban made slave to Prospero

Gave o’er the hope of Setebos’ return

To royal power in the new found land

Betraying god and Sycorax and me

In cleaving unto Juno’s temple

And with my brother Harran in compact

Conspir’d to lay their shame upon mine oath

By calling back my pledge to Claribel

So that thou might be wedded to a nun,

And they be wed forever to your throne.

Thus did Ptolemy take Harranus part

To whom was given thy protectorship

After thy mother’s death, and my designs

To marry thee to princess Claribel

Were by this priest and royal counselor

By blackmail and vile threats and bribery

In parliament upset and overturned.

They laid on me the charge of sorcery

The same with which Harranus ridded him

Of my poor mother. And I who then was

Next in line for priestess high of Juno

Am made a sister to that self same nun

Who was to wed thee. So for they did seek

Their politics to cloak in righteousness

Defending Tunis against sorcery

‘Tis only just they should by sorcery

Be overturned in turn. Good Ptolemy,

Who in his goodness lent to Sycorax

The services of Ariel his sprite,

Had then no magic spirit to command,

While all the host that Erus do attend

Whom on my sixteenth birthday Sycorax

Into my hands the crystal leash didst place

Proved faithfuller (or more constrained at least)

Than on my fall from grace my friends at court.

My overweening brother for his part

While gifted in the strategies of state

And cunning to conceal his true intents

No magic spirit ever deigned to serve.

Though bribery and threats the ship of state

Do move as do the winds the ships at sea

‘Tis only through men’s souls that they do work.

The spirits that my magic doth invoke

Know of a shorter way into men’s souls

And there they wait to turn them from the gate.

In short, they shortly did thus countermand

The petty fears of coward parliament

With deeper fears they could not comprehend.

With images of Juno, the dead queen,

And Sycorax they did assail their dreams.

As Juno they curst as incestuous

Marriage of a king to his daughter church.

As the queen, they silently remembered

How Tunis’ greatness was eclips’d by Rome

When last their wedding plans had been undone.

As Sycorax they led a ghostly train

Of mothers’ mothers’ mothers’ without end

Ev’ry mother’s mother, mother’s daughter

And every other daughter sold like me

Unto her mother’s enemies by sons.

When all these craven fathers of Tunis

Had thus been visited in fevered sleep

Their captain Erus and my senator

Didst flame amazement in their parliament

‘Til all abandoned was their marriage plans.

The messengers to Naples were o’erta’en;

The princess overpriced at virgin rates

Laded shipboard without further ado.

Now Naples unto Tunis wedded is,

Those walls I could not breach have swallowed me,

But like a mouse a poisoned bit of cheese.

The time is almost come when I shall see

My mother’s cunning enemies brought low

Harran and Ptolemy especially

And Prospero’s beloved Italy

Whose far off conjured image he dotes on

Like festered lilies on a distant hill

To pay his labor with corruption’s stench.

OROZCO But why must thou beset all Italy

If thy offence be Prospero’s alone?

Ferdinand is rash and adventurous

And sure to take the vanguard in his wars.

If that he should die, the crown of Naples

Would fall as I within thine influence.

ASTRIA Tis not for me I wage this direful war

But to avenge the much wronged Sycorax.

But what know ye of the lust of vengeance?

This generation without scars of war

Or poverty lives so magnanimous

Revenge seems but a slave’s vain fantasy

Beneath the dignity they do pretend.

Get you sir unto your bridal chamber

And you take up some study or other;

To keep you occupied some other where

The king must sleep where he may get an heir

[Exit Orosco and Tanibal]

How now my demon errant? Erus when?

[Enter Erus]

Thy mulishness of late doth vex me much What Erus!

ERUS: Anon I come my mistress.

Thou need’st not bellow more than once i’ faith

Thy first command did so stink up the air

It waked the sleeping hound black Cerberus

Who heaved up such a trinity of howls

The spirits turned and cast me out of hell

Pray you in future madam by your leave

But touch the talisman about your neck

And name me in thy thought. The great furnace

Beneath thy nostrils black thou shouldst reserve

To consume matter of more substance.

Astria: Sirrah, this insubordination I far too long have chosen to ignore.

How ride the ships I sent thee to o’erlook? [The rest is lost]