Ride 'em and Booze -- The Sott, Drunk Love and Codependency

The Oncoming Storm

SCENE I. Padua. A room in BAPTISTA'S house.

Enter KATHARINA and BIANCA

BIANCA

Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,
To make a bondmaid and a slave of me;
That I disdain: but for these other gawds,
Unbind my hands, I'll pull them off myself,
Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;
Or what you will command me will I do,
So well I know my duty to my elders.

KATHARINA

Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell
Whom thou lovest best: see thou dissemble not.

BIANCA

Believe me, sister, of all the men alive
I never yet beheld that special face
Which I could fancy more than any other.

KATHARINA

Minion, thou liest. Is't not Hortensio?

-- SPITE --

BIANCA

If you affect him, sister, here I swear
I'll plead for you myself, but you shall have
him.

KATHARINA

O then, belike, you fancy riches more:
You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

BIANCA

Is it for him you do envy me so?
Nay then you jest, and now I well perceive
You have but jested with me all this while:
I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

KATHARINA

If that be jest, then all the rest was so.
Strikes her

Enter BAPTISTA

BAPTISTA

Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence?
Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps.
Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.
For shame, thou helding of a devilish spirit,
Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee?
When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

KATHARINA

Her silence flouts me, and I'll be revenged.
Flies after BIANCA

BAPTISTA

What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.
Exit BIANCA

KATHARINA

What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see
She is your treasure, she must have a husband;
I must dance bare-foot on her wedding day
And for your love to her lead apes in hell.
Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep
Till I can find occasion of revenge.
Exit

BAPTISTA

Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I?
But who comes here?
Enter GREMIO, LUCENTIO in the habit of a mean man; PETRUCHIO, with HORTENSIO as a musician; and TRANIO, with BIONDELLO bearing a lute and books

GREMIO

Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

BAPTISTA

Good morrow, neighbour Gremio.
God save you, gentlemen!

PETRUCHIO

And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter
Call'd Katharina, fair and virtuous?

BAPTISTA

I have a daughter, sir, called Katharina.

GREMIO

You are too blunt: go to it orderly.

PETRUCHIO

You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.
I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,
That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,
Her affability and bashful modesty,
Her wondrous qualities and mild behavior,
Am bold to show myself a forward guest
Within your house, to make mine eye the witness
Of that report which I so oft have heard.
And, for an entrance to my entertainment,
I do present you with a man of mine,
Presenting HORTENSIO
Cunning in music and the mathematics,
To instruct her fully in those sciences,
Whereof I know she is not ignorant:
Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:
His name is Licio, born in Mantua.

BAPTISTA

You're welcome, sir; and he, for your good sake.
But for my daughter Katharina, this I know,
She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

PETRUCHIO

I see you do not mean to part with her,
Or else you like not of my company.

BAPTISTA

Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.
Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?

PETRUCHIO

Petruchio is my name; Antonio's son,
A man well known throughout all Italy.

BAPTISTA

I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

GREMIO

Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,
Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too:
Baccare! you are marvellous forward.

PETRUCHIO

O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

GREMIO

I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your
wooing. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am
sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself,
that have been more kindly beholding to you than
any, freely give unto you this young scholar,
Presenting LUCENTIO
that hath been long studying at Rheims; as cunning
in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other
in music and mathematics: his name is Cambio; pray,
accept his service.

BAPTISTA

A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio.
Welcome, good Cambio.

To TRANIO

But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger:
may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming?

TRANIO

Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,
That, being a stranger in this city here,

" There comes a time, Thief, when the jewels cease to sparkle, when the gold loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison -- 

And all that is left is a Father's love for his child." -

Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,
Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous.
Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,
In the preferment of the eldest sister.
This liberty is all that I request,
That, upon knowledge of my parentage,
I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo
And free access and favour as the rest:
And, toward the education of your daughters,
I here bestow a simple instrument,
And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:
If you accept them, then their worth is great.

BAPTISTA

Lucentio is your name; of whence, I pray?

TRANIO

Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

BAPTISTA

A mighty man of Pisa; by report
I know him well: you are very welcome, sir,
Take you the lute, and you the set of books;
You shall go see your pupils presently.
Holla, within!

Enter a Servant

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen
To my daughters; and tell them both,
These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

Exit Servant, with LUCENTIO and HORTENSIO, BIONDELLO following

We will go walk a little in the orchard,
And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,
And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

PETRUCHIO

Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,
And every day I cannot come to woo.
You knew my father well, and in him me,
Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,
Which I have better'd rather than decreased:
Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love,
What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

BAPTISTA

After my death the one half of my lands,
And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

PETRUCHIO

And, for that dowry, I'll assure her of
Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,
In all my lands and leases whatsoever:
Let specialties be therefore drawn between us,
That covenants may be kept on either hand.

BAPTISTA

Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd,
That is, her love; for that is all in all.

PETRUCHIO

Why, that is nothing: for I tell you, father,
I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;
And where two raging fires meet together
They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:
Though little fire grows great with little wind,
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all:
So I to her and so she yields to me;
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

BAPTISTA

Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!
But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words.

PETRUCHIO

Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds,
That shake not, though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter HORTENSIO, with his head broke

BAPTISTA

How now, my friend! why dost thou look so pale?

HORTENSIO

For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

BAPTISTA

What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

HORTENSIO

I think she'll sooner prove a soldier
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

BAPTISTA

Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

HORTENSIO

Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering;
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
'Frets, call you these?' quoth she; 'I'll fume
with them:'
And, with that word, she struck me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way;
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute;
While she did call me rascal fiddler
And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms,
As had she studied to misuse me so.

PETRUCHIO

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench;
I love her ten times more than e'er I did:
O, how I long to have some chat with her!

BAPTISTA

Well, go with me and be not so discomfited:
Proceed in practise with my younger daughter;
She's apt to learn and thankful for good turns.
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,
Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

PETRUCHIO

I pray you do.

Exeunt all but PETRUCHIO

I will 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 KATHARINA

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

KATHARINA

Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:
They call me Katharina 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 praised in every town,
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,
Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

KATHARINA

Moved! in good time: let him that moved you hither
Remove you hence: I knew you at the first
You were a moveable.

PETRUCHIO

Why, what's a moveable?

KATHARINA

A join'd-stool.

PETRUCHIO

Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.

KATHARINA

Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

PETRUCHIO

Women are made to bear, and so are you.

KATHARINA

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--

KATHARINA

Too light for such a swain as you to catch;
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

PETRUCHIO

Should be! should--buzz!

KATHARINA

Well ta'en, and like a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO

O slow-wing'd turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?

KATHARINA

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

PETRUCHIO

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

KATHARINA

If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

PETRUCHIO

My remedy is then, to pluck it out.

KATHARINA

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

PETRUCHIO

Who knows not where a wasp does
wear his sting? In his tail.

KATHARINA

In his tongue.

PETRUCHIO

Whose tongue?

KATHARINA

Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.

PETRUCHIO

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again,
Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

KATHARINA

That I'll try.
She strikes him

PETRUCHIO

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

KATHARINA

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!

KATHARINA

What is your crest? a coxcomb?

PETRUCHIO

A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

KATHARINA

No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.

PETRUCHIO

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

KATHARINA

It is my fashion, when I see a crab.

PETRUCHIO

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

KATHARINA

There is, there is.

PETRUCHIO

Then show it me.

KATHARINA

Had I a glass, I would.

PETRUCHIO

What, you mean my face?

KATHARINA

Well aim'd of such a young one.

PETRUCHIO

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

KATHARINA

Yet you are wither'd.

PETRUCHIO

'Tis with cares.

KATHARINA

I care not.

PETRUCHIO

Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth you scape not so.

KATHARINA

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 are pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,
But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time 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 slanderous 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.

KATHARINA

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!

KATHARINA

Where did you study all this goodly speech?

PETRUCHIO

It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

KATHARINA

A witty mother! witless else her son.

PETRUCHIO

Am I not wise?

KATHARINA

Yes; keep you warm.

PETRUCHIO

Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharina, 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.
Here comes your father: never make denial;
I must and will have Katharina to my wife.

Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO

BAPTISTA

Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

PETRUCHIO

How but well, sir? how but well?
It were impossible I should speed amiss.

BAPTISTA

Why, how now, daughter Katharina! in your dumps?

KATHARINA

Call you me daughter? now, I promise you
You have show'd a tender fatherly regard,
To wish me wed to one half lunatic;
A mad-cup ruffian and a swearing Jack,
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

PETRUCHIO

 Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world,
That talk'd of her, have talk'd amiss of her:
If she be curst, it is for policy,
For she's not froward, but modest as the dove;
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;
For patience she will prove a second Grissel,
And Roman Lucrece for her chastity:
And to conclude, we have 'greed so well together,
That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.

KATHARINA

I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.

GREMIO

Hark, Petruchio; she says she'll see thee
hang'd first.

TRANIO

Is this your speeding? nay, then, good night our part!

PETRUCHIO

Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for myself:
If she and I be pleased, what's that to you?
'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone,
That she shall still be curst in company.
I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe
How much she loves me: O, the kindest Kate!
She hung about my neck; and kiss on kiss
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,
That in a twink she won me to her love.
O, you are novices! 'tis a world to see,
How tame, when men and women are alone,
A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.
Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice,
To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;
I will be sure my Katharina shall be fine.

BAPTISTA

I know not what to say: but give me your hands;
God send you joy, Petruchio! 'tis a match.

GREMIO TRANIO

Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.

PETRUCHIO

Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu;
I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace:
We will have rings and things and fine array;
And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o'Sunday.
Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA severally

GREMIO

Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly?

BAPTISTA

Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part,
And venture madly on a desperate mart.

TRANIO

'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you:
'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

BAPTISTA

The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

GREMIO

No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.
But now, Baptists, to your younger daughter:
Now is the day we long have looked for:
I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

TRANIO

And I am one that love Bianca more
Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.

GREMIO

Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

TRANIO

Graybeard, thy love doth freeze.

GREMIO

But thine doth fry.
Skipper, stand back: 'tis age that nourisheth.

TRANIO

But youth in ladies' eyes that flourisheth.

BAPTISTA

Content you, gentlemen: I will compound this strife:
'Tis deeds must win the prize; and he of both
That can assure my daughter greatest dower
Shall have my Bianca's love.
Say, Signior Gremio, What can you assure her?

GREMIO

First, as you know, my house within the city
Is richly furnished with plate and gold;
Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;
In ivory coffers I have stuff'd my crowns;
In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,
Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,
Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl,
Valance of Venice gold in needlework,
Pewter and brass and all things that belong
To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm
I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,
Sixscore fat oxen standing in my stalls,
And all things answerable to this portion.
Myself am struck in years, I must confess;
And if I die to-morrow, this is hers,
If whilst I live she will be only mine.

TRANIO

That 'only' came well in. Sir, list to me:
I am my father's heir and only son:
If I may have your daughter to my wife,
I'll leave her houses three or four as good,
Within rich Pisa walls, as any one
Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;
Besides two thousand ducats by the year
Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.
What, have I pinch'd you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO

Two thousand ducats by the year of land!
My land amounts not to so much in all:
That she shall have; besides an argosy
That now is lying in Marseilles' road.
What, have I choked you with an argosy?

TRANIO

Gremio, 'tis known my father hath no less
Than three great argosies; besides two galliases,
And twelve tight galleys: these I will assure her,
And twice as much, whate'er thou offer'st next.

GREMIO

Nay, I have offer'd all, I have no more;
And she can have no more than all I have:
If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

TRANIO

Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,
By your firm promise: Gremio is out-vied.

BAPTISTA

I must confess your offer is the best;
And, let your father make her the assurance,
She is your own; else, you must pardon me,
if you should die before him, where's her dower?

TRANIO

That's but a cavil: he is old, I young.

GREMIO

And may not young men die, as well as old?

BAPTISTA

Well, gentlemen,
I am thus resolved: on Sunday next you know
My daughter Katharina is to be married:
Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca
Be bride to you, if you this assurance;
If not, Signior Gremio:
And so, I take my leave, and thank you both.

GREMIO

Adieu, good neighbour.

Exit BAPTISTA

Now I fear thee not:
Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool
To give thee all, and in his waning age
Set foot under thy table: tut, a toy!
An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

Exit

TRANIO

A vengeance on your crafty wither'd hide!
Yet I have faced it with a card of ten.
'Tis in my head to do my master good:
I see no reason but supposed Lucentio
Must get a father, call'd 'supposed Vincentio;'
And that's a wonder: fathers commonly
Do get their children; but in this case of wooing,
A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

Exit

Mike the Accoster

accost (v.)

1570s, "come side-by-side or face-to-face with," for any reason, from Middle French accoster "move up to, come alongside" (Old French acoster), from Late Latin accostare"come up to the side," from assimilated form of Latin ad "to" (see ad-) + costa "a rib, side" (see coast (n.)). Now usually in the sense "approach and speak to" (1610s). Also picked up in newspaper articles as the verb for a prostitute's solicitation of a customer (1887). Related: Accosted; accosting.

The Kamikaze Trojan Horse Gambit  —

Aka, The Amy Schumer Aggressive Victim Pantomime 

“ Eat Me, I’m Weak, Incompetent, 

Tasty 

and Delicous...! ”

 AND ABSOLUTELY TOXIC

Too Much Love Can Kill You

“ The man had killed the thing he loved

  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

  By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

  Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

" Negligence is an Extreme Thing. "

Chapter 1, p. 1

The Way of The Samurai,

   

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

Oscar Wilde, 1854 - 1900

 I

He did not wear his scarlet coat,

  For blood and wine are red,

And blood and wine were on his hands

  When they found him with the dead,

The poor dead woman whom he loved,

  And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men

  In a suit of shabby grey;

A cricket cap was on his head,

  And his step seemed light and gay;

But I never saw a man who looked

  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked

  With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

  Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went

  With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,

  Within another ring,

And was wondering if the man had done

  A great or little thing,

When a voice behind me whispered low,

  "That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls

  Suddenly seemed to reel,

And the sky above my head became

  Like a casque of scorching steel;

And, though I was a soul in pain,

  My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought

  Quickened his step, and why

He looked upon the garish day

  With such a wistful eye;

The man had killed the thing he loved

  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

  By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

  Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

  The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

  And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

  Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

  Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

  And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

  Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame

  On a day of dark disgrace,

Nor have a noose about his neck,

  Nor a cloth upon his face,

Nor drop feet foremost through the floor

  Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men

  Who watch him night and day;

Who watch him when he tries to weep,

  And when he tries to pray;

Who watch him lest himself should rob

  The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see

  Dread figures throng his room,

The shivering Chaplain robed in white,

  The Sheriff stern with gloom,

And the Governor all in shiny black,

  With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste

  To put on convict-clothes,

While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes

  Each new and nerve-twitched pose,

Fingering a watch whose little ticks

  Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst

  That sands one's throat, before

The hangman with his gardener's gloves

  Slips through the padded door,

And binds one with three leathern thongs,

  That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear

  The Burial Office read,

Nor, while the terror of his soul

  Tells him he is not dead,

Cross his own coffin, as he moves

  Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air

  Through a little roof of glass;

He does not pray with lips of clay

  For his agony to pass;

Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek

  The kiss of Caiaphas.

II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,

  In a suit of shabby grey:

His cricket cap was on his head,

  And his step seemed light and gay,

But I never saw a man who looked

  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked

  With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

  Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every wandering cloud that trailed

  Its raveled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do

  Those witless men who dare

To try to rear the changeling Hope

  In the cave of black Despair:

He only looked upon the sun,

  And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,

  Nor did he peek or pine,

But he drank the air as though it held

  Some healthful anodyne;

With open mouth he drank the sun

  As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,

  Who tramped the other ring,

Forgot if we ourselves had done

  A great or little thing,

And watched with gaze of dull amaze

  The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass

  With a step so light and gay,

And strange it was to see him look

  So wistfully at the day,

And strange it was to think that he

  Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves

  That in the spring-time shoot:

But grim to see is the gallows-tree,

  With its adder-bitten root,

And, green or dry, a man must die

  Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace

  For which all worldlings try:

But who would stand in hempen band

  Upon a scaffold high,

And through a murderer's collar take

  His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins

  When Love and Life are fair:

To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes

  Is delicate and rare:

But it is not sweet with nimble feet

  To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise

  We watched him day by day,

And wondered if each one of us

  Would end the self-same way,

For none can tell to what red Hell

  His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more

  Amongst the Trial Men,

And I knew that he was standing up

  In the black dock's dreadful pen,

And that never would I see his face

  In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm

  We had crossed each other's way:

But we made no sign, we said no word,

  We had no word to say;

For we did not meet in the holy night,

  But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,

  Two outcast men were we:

The world had thrust us from its heart,

  And God from out His care:

And the iron gin that waits for Sin

  Had caught us in its snare.

III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,

  And the dripping wall is high,

So it was there he took the air

  Beneath the leaden sky,

And by each side a Warder walked,

  For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched

  His anguish night and day;

Who watched him when he rose to weep,

  And when he crouched to pray;

Who watched him lest himself should rob

  Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon

  The Regulations Act:

The Doctor said that Death was but

  A scientific fact:

And twice a day the Chaplain called

  And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,

  And drank his quart of beer:

His soul was resolute, and held

  No hiding-place for fear;

He often said that he was glad

  The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing

  No Warder dared to ask:

For he to whom a watcher's doom

  Is given as his task,

Must set a lock upon his lips,

  And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try

  To comfort or console:

And what should Human Pity do

  Pent up in Murderers' Hole?

What word of grace in such a place

  Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring

  We trod the Fool's Parade!

We did not care: we knew we were

  The Devil's Own Brigade:

And shaven head and feet of lead

  Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds

  With blunt and bleeding nails;

We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,

  And cleaned the shining rails:

And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,

  And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,

  We turned the dusty drill:

We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,

  And sweated on the mill:

But in the heart of every man

  Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day

  Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:

And we forgot the bitter lot

  That waits for fool and knave,

Till once, as we tramped in from work,

  We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole

  Gaped for a living thing;

The very mud cried out for blood

  To the thirsty asphalte ring:

And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair

  Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent

  On Death and Dread and Doom:

The hangman, with his little bag,

  Went shuffling through the gloom

And each man trembled as he crept

  Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors

  Were full of forms of Fear,

And up and down the iron town

  Stole feet we could not hear,

And through the bars that hide the stars

  White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams

  In a pleasant meadow-land,

The watcher watched him as he slept,

  And could not understand

How one could sleep so sweet a sleep

  With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep

  Who never yet have wept:

So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—

  That endless vigil kept,

And through each brain on hands of pain

  Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing

  To feel another's guilt!

For, right within, the sword of Sin

  Pierced to its poisoned hilt,

And as molten lead were the tears we shed

  For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt

  Crept by each padlocked door,

And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,

  Grey figures on the floor,

And wondered why men knelt to pray

  Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,

  Mad mourners of a corpse!

The troubled plumes of midnight were

  The plumes upon a hearse:

And bitter wine upon a sponge

  Was the savior of Remorse.

The cock crew, the red cock crew,

  But never came the day:

And crooked shape of Terror crouched,

  In the corners where we lay:

And each evil sprite that walks by night

  Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,

  Like travelers through a mist:

They mocked the moon in a rigadoon

  Of delicate turn and twist,

And with formal pace and loathsome grace

  The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,

  Slim shadows hand in hand:

About, about, in ghostly rout

  They trod a saraband:

And the damned grotesques made arabesques,

  Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,

  They tripped on pointed tread:

But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,

  As their grisly masque they led,

And loud they sang, and loud they sang,

  For they sang to wake the dead.

"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,

  But fettered limbs go lame!

And once, or twice, to throw the dice

  Is a gentlemanly game,

But he does not win who plays with Sin

  In the secret House of Shame."

No things of air these antics were

  That frolicked with such glee:

To men whose lives were held in gyves,

  And whose feet might not go free,

Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,

  Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;

  Some wheeled in smirking pairs:

With the mincing step of demirep

  Some sidled up the stairs:

And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,

  Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,

  But still the night went on:

Through its giant loom the web of gloom

  Crept till each thread was spun:

And, as we prayed, we grew afraid

  Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round

  The weeping prison-wall:

Till like a wheel of turning-steel

  We felt the minutes crawl:

O moaning wind! what had we done

  To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars

  Like a lattice wrought in lead,

Move right across the whitewashed wall

  That faced my three-plank bed,

And I knew that somewhere in the world

  God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,

  At seven all was still,

But the sough and swing of a mighty wing

  The prison seemed to fill,

For the Lord of Death with icy breath

  Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,

  Nor ride a moon-white steed.

Three yards of cord and a sliding board

  Are all the gallows' need:

So with rope of shame the Herald came

  To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen

  Of filthy darkness grope:

We did not dare to breathe a prayer,

  Or give our anguish scope:

Something was dead in each of us,

  And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,

  And will not swerve aside:

It slays the weak, it slays the strong,

  It has a deadly stride:

With iron heel it slays the strong,

  The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:

  Each tongue was thick with thirst:

For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate

  That makes a man accursed,

And Fate will use a running noose

  For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,

  Save to wait for the sign to come:

So, like things of stone in a valley lone,

  Quiet we sat and dumb:

But each man's heart beat thick and quick

  Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock

  Smote on the shivering air,

And from all the gaol rose up a wail

  Of impotent despair,

Like the sound that frightened marshes hear

  From a leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things

  In the crystal of a dream,

We saw the greasy hempen rope

  Hooked to the blackened beam,

And heard the prayer the hangman's snare

  Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so

  That he gave that bitter cry,

And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,

  None knew so well as I:

For he who lives more lives than one

  More deaths than one must die.

IV

There is no chapel on the day

  On which they hang a man:

The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,

  Or his face is far too wan,

Or there is that written in his eyes

  Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,

  And then they rang the bell,

And the Warders with their jingling keys

  Opened each listening cell,

And down the iron stair we tramped,

  Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,

  But not in wonted way,

For this man's face was white with fear,

  And that man's face was grey,

And I never saw sad men who looked

  So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked

  With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

  We prisoners called the sky,

And at every careless cloud that passed

  In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all

  Who walked with downcast head,

And knew that, had each got his due,

  They should have died instead:

He had but killed a thing that lived

  Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time

  Wakes a dead soul to pain,

And draws it from its spotted shroud,

  And makes it bleed again,

And makes it bleed great gouts of blood

  And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb

  With crooked arrows starred,

Silently we went round and round

  The slippery asphalte yard;

Silently we went round and round,

  And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,

  And through each hollow mind

The memory of dreadful things

  Rushed like a dreadful wind,

And Horror stalked before each man,

  And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,

  And kept their herd of brutes,

Their uniforms were spick and span,

  And they wore their Sunday suits,

But we knew the work they had been at

  By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,

  There was no grave at all:

Only a stretch of mud and sand

  By the hideous prison-wall,

And a little heap of burning lime,

  That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,

  Such as few men can claim:

Deep down below a prison-yard,

  Naked for greater shame,

He lies, with fetters on each foot,

  Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime

  Eats flesh and bone away,

It eats the brittle bone by night,

  And the soft flesh by the day,

It eats the flesh and bones by turns,

  But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow

  Or root or seedling there:

For three long years the unblessed spot

  Will sterile be and bare,

And look upon the wondering sky

  With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint

  Each simple seed they sow.

It is not true! God's kindly earth

  Is kindlier than men know,

And the red rose would but blow more red,

  The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!

  Out of his heart a white!

For who can say by what strange way,

  Christ brings his will to light,

Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore

  Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red

  May bloom in prison air;

The shard, the pebble, and the flint,

  Are what they give us there:

For flowers have been known to heal

  A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,

  Petal by petal, fall

On that stretch of mud and sand that lies

  By the hideous prison-wall,

To tell the men who tramp the yard

  That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall

  Still hems him round and round,

And a spirit man not walk by night

  That is with fetters bound,

And a spirit may not weep that lies

  In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—

  At peace, or will be soon:

There is no thing to make him mad,

  Nor does Terror walk at noon,

For the lampless Earth in which he lies

  Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:

  They did not even toll

A reguiem that might have brought

  Rest to his startled soul,

But hurriedly they took him out,

  And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,

  And gave him to the flies;

They mocked the swollen purple throat

  And the stark and staring eyes:

And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud

  In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray

  By his dishonored grave:

Nor mark it with that blessed Cross

  That Christ for sinners gave,

Because the man was one of those

  Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed

  To Life's appointed bourne:

And alien tears will fill for him

  Pity's long-broken urn,

For his mourner will be outcast men,

  And outcasts always mourn.

V

I know not whether Laws be right,

  Or whether Laws be wrong;

All that we know who lie in gaol

  Is that the wall is strong;

And that each day is like a year,

  A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law

  That men have made for Man,

Since first Man took his brother's life,

  And the sad world began,

But straws the wheat and saves the chaff

  With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were

  If each could know the same—

That every prison that men build

  Is built with bricks of shame,

And bound with bars lest Christ should see

  How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,

  And blind the goodly sun:

And they do well to hide their Hell,

  For in it things are done

That Son of God nor son of Man

  Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds

  Bloom well in prison-air:

It is only what is good in Man

  That wastes and withers there:

Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,

  And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child

  Till it weeps both night and day:

And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,

  And gibe the old and grey,

And some grow mad, and all grow bad,

And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell

  Is foul and dark latrine,

And the fetid breath of living Death

  Chokes up each grated screen,

And all, but Lust, is turned to dust

  In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink

  Creeps with a loathsome slime,

And the bitter bread they weigh in scales

  Is full of chalk and lime,

And Sleep will not lie down, but walks

  Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst

  Like asp with adder fight,

We have little care of prison fare,

  For what chills and kills outright

Is that every stone one lifts by day

  Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,

  And twilight in one's cell,

We turn the crank, or tear the rope,

  Each in his separate Hell,

And the silence is more awful far

  Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near

  To speak a gentle word:

And the eye that watches through the door

  Is pitiless and hard:

And by all forgot, we rot and rot,

  With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain

  Degraded and alone:

And some men curse, and some men weep,

  And some men make no moan:

But God's eternal Laws are kind

  And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,

  In prison-cell or yard,

Is as that broken box that gave

  Its treasure to the Lord,

And filled the unclean leper's house

  With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break

  And peace of pardon win!

How else may man make straight his plan

  And cleanse his soul from Sin?

How else but through a broken heart

  May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.

  And the stark and staring eyes,

Waits for the holy hands that took

  The Thief to Paradise;

And a broken and a contrite heart

  The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law

  Gave him three weeks of life,

Three little weeks in which to heal

  His soul of his soul's strife,

And cleanse from every blot of blood

  The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,

  The hand that held the steel:

For only blood can wipe out blood,

  And only tears can heal:

And the crimson stain that was of Cain

  Became Christ's snow-white seal.

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town

  There is a pit of shame,

And in it lies a wretched man

  Eaten by teeth of flame,

In burning winding-sheet he lies,

  And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,

  In silence let him lie:

No need to waste the foolish tear,

  Or heave the windy sigh:

The man had killed the thing he loved,

  And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,

  By all let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

  Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

  The brave man with a sword!

The Final Conflict

The Valley of The Shadow

" The Israeli government has denied responsibility for the Aswan Dam disaster, which has so far claimed the lives ofover 50,000 Egyptians, though many fear that the final death toll may reach twice that number. 

Already typhoid has broken out among the country's thousands of homeless refugees and a major epidemic seems unavoidable. 

The Egyptian government has revealed that Thorn is supplying soya... 

At the centre of Thorns global operations is a man who has become a legend for his time: Damien Thorn. 

Harvey :

Did you see that woman? It's not a woman.

 It's a guy. It's a faggot!

Dressed up like a woman. It's a faggot! 

Ambassador Damien Thorn, 

United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James

Son of Satan

The Antichrist : 

They're all God's children, Harvey. 

..in a career that's already being compared to that of the late John F Kennedy. 

After majoring at Yale, Damien Thorn came to Oxford as a Rhodes scholar, where he captained the Oxford eight to victory and won the Westchester Cup at polo. 

In 1971 he took over his uncle's business, Thorn industries, and in seven years has turned it into the world's largest multinational, producing everything from nuclear armaments to soya bean food products. 

And now, at the age of 32, Damien Thorn has... 

Are you lost? You're not connected with this programme, are you? 

- 

This is stage 8, 

[ RUPTURE ]

isn't it? 

- 

4. [ Square; Masonic, Masculine Balance  3-D Equilibrium ]

- Studio eight's the next one along. 

[ 4-8 or 8-4; 1948, 1984 ]

- Yes. Thank you. 

A brilliant career for one so young, Mr. Ambassador. 

Ambassador Damien Thorn, 

United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James

Son of Satan

The Antichrist : 

Not when you remember that Alexander the Great was commanding the Macedonian army at 16. 

[ 1 + 6 = 7 ]

Interviewer :

Of course, that's how many people view you - as a sort of 20th-century Alexander, 

Leading The World out of the doldrums of recession into the golden era of prosperity. 

Ambassador Damien Thorn, 

United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James

Son of Satan

The Antichrist : 

- You've seen too many Thorn commercials. 

[ !!! ]

Interviewer :

But it's The Image you put across...

[ She gets it already, even though she does not realise fully what she is saying... ]

Ambassador Damien Thorn, 

United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James

Son of Satan

The Antichrist : 

Well, the image of Thorn as a corporation, not a personal image of myself. 

But yes, it's True. 

I certainly have tremendous optimism for The Future, and I wanna see Thorn play a major part in achieving it. 

Interviewer :

You have an interest in young people. 

What are your plans as President of the United Nations Youth Council? 

Ambassador Damien Thorn, 

United States Ambassador to the Court of St. James

Son of Satan

The Antichrist : 

A great many things, but I think the most important task I have is to help young people gain a more prominent role in world affairs than the one we currently afford them, or rather deny them. 

I mean, what is this arrogance that makes us think that we know better than them? 

We call them immature and naive. 

"Wait till you're grown-up. Then we'll listen to you." 

What we really mean is 

"Wait till you're grown old. Then you'll think the way we do." 

And so youth stands aside because it has no other choice, and we set to work. 

We ply them with our values, we indoctrinate them with our mediocrity. 

Until finally they emerge from their brainwashing education as so-called fully fledged citizens, clipped, impotent, and above all safe. 

Ideas & Trends in Summary; It's All Right To Come Out Now

MARCH 14, 1982

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The word is out. The world did not end last week, even though all nine planets in the solar system and the Moon were on the same side of the Sun at the same time.

Rumor had it that syzygy - literally the ''yoking together'' or alignment of several celestial bodies -should have occurred March 10, with the planets lining up on one side of the Sun to exert a collective gravitational tug. That was to have generated unusual tides on the Sun's surface, producing an abnormally large number of sunspots that would shower the Earth with excess amounts of charged particles, altering the atmosphere so that it changed Earth's rotation, causing earthquakes.

But except for the rare planetary configuration, which was more a scattering than a lineup and thus not much of a syzygy at all, astronomers called it a humdrum day. For worry warts, the next ''grand'' syzygy is May 19, 2161, when eight planets (excluding Pluto) will be found within 69 degrees of each other, according to astronomers at the Kitt Peak National Observatory.

We Have a History

Him and Wolverine —They Have a History Together.

“

“And I want to quote for you, to you, from the oldest history book in Western civilization. Not just because it's a book....  Any history course ought to do the two things that Herodotus named in the opening sentence of the oldest history book we have. 

This is Herodotus, The History. Isn't it great when you're writing the first book, what are you going to call it? “The History” — no subtitles, nothing fancy, just--

“The History.”

"I, Herodotus of Halicarnassus, am here setting forth MY History, that time may not draw the color from what Man has brought into being, nor those great and wonderful deeds manifested by both the Greeks AND the barbarians, fail of their report, and together, with all of this — 

The Reason WHY They fought one another."