the man against the sky- 第3部分

And　ashes　for　a　wasted　love；

Or；　like　One　whom　you　may　forget；

I　may　have　meat　you　know　not　of。

And　if　I'd　rather　live　than　weep

Meanwhile；　do　you　find　that　surprising？

Why；　bless　my　soul；　the　man's　asleep！

That's　good。　　The　sun　will　soon　be　rising。〃









Ben　Jonson　Entertains　a　Man　from　Stratford







You　are　a　friend　then；　as　I　make　it　out；

Of　our　man　Shakespeare；　who　alone　of　us

Will　put　an　ass's　head　in　Fairyland

As　he　would　add　a　shilling　to　more　shillings；

All　most　harmonious；　　and　out　of　his

Miraculous　inviolable　increase

Fills　Ilion；　Rome；　or　any　town　you　like

Of　olden　time　with　timeless　Englishmen；

And　I　must　wonder　what　you　think　of　him　

All　you　down　there　where　your　small　Avon　flows

By　Stratford；　and　where　you're　an　Alderman。

Some；　for　a　guess；　would　have　him　riding　back

To　be　a　farrier　there；　or　say　a　dyer；

Or　maybe　one　of　your　adept　surveyors；

Or　like　enough　the　wizard　of　all　tanners。

Not　you　　no　fear　of　that；　for　I　discern

In　you　a　kindling　of　the　flame　that　saves　

The　nimble　element；　the　true　phlogiston；

I　see　it；　and　was　told　of　it；　moreover；

By　our　discriminate　friend　himself；　no　other。

Had　you　been　one　of　the　sad　average；

As　he　would　have　it；　　meaning；　as　I　take　it；

The　sinew　and　the　solvent　of　our　Island；

You'd　not　be　buying　beer　for　this　Terpander's

Approved　and　estimated　friend　Ben　Jonson；

He'd　never　foist　it　as　a　part　of　his

Contingent　entertainment　of　a　townsman

While　he　goes　off　rehearsing；　as　he　must；

If　he　shall　ever　be　the　Duke　of　Stratford。

And　my　words　are　no　shadow　on　your　town　

Far　from　it；　for　one　town's　as　like　another

As　all　are　unlike　London。　　Oh；　he　knows　it；　

And　there's　the　Stratford　in　him；　he　denies　it；

And　there's　the　Shakespeare　in　him。　　So；　God　help　him！

I　tell　him　he　needs　Greek；　but　neither　God

Nor　Greek　will　help　him。　　Nothing　will　help　that　man。

You　see　the　fates　have　given　him　so　much；

He　must　have　all　or　perish；　　or　look　out

Of　London；　where　he　sees　too　many　lords；

They're　part　of　half　what　ails　him：　　I　suppose

There's　nothing　fouler　down　among　the　demons

Than　what　it　is　he　feels　when　he　remembers

The　dust　and　sweat　and　ointment　of　his　calling

With　his　lords　looking　on　and　laughing　at　him。

King　as　he　is；　he　can't　be　king　de　facto；

And　that's　as　well；　because　he　wouldn't　like　it；

He'd　frame　a　lower　rating　of　men　then

Than　he　has　now；　and　after　that　would　come

An　abdication　or　an　apoplexy。

He　can't　be　king；　not　even　king　of　Stratford；　

Though　half　the　world；　if　not　the　whole　of　it；

May　crown　him　with　a　crown　that　fits　no　king

Save　Lord　Apollo's　homesick　emissary：

Not　there　on　Avon；　or　on　any　stream

Where　Naiads　and　their　white　arms　are　no　more；

Shall　he　find　home　again。　　It's　all　too　bad。

But　there's　a　comfort；　for　he'll　have　that　House　

The　best　you　ever　saw；　and　he'll　be　there

Anon；　as　you're　an　Alderman。　　Good　God！

He　makes　me　lie　awake　o'　nights　and　laugh。

And　you　have　known　him　from　his　origin；

You　tell　me；　and　a　most　uncommon　urchin

He　must　have　been　to　the　few　seeing　ones　

A　trifle　terrifying；　I　dare　say；

Discovering　a　world　with　his　man's　eyes；

Quite　as　another　lad　might　see　some　finches；

If　he　looked　hard　and　had　an　eye　for　nature。

But　this　one　had　his　eyes　and　their　foretelling；

And　he　had　you　to　fare　with；　and　what　else？

He　must　have　had　a　father　and　a　mother　

In　fact　I've　heard　him　say　so　　and　a　dog；

As　a　boy　should；　I　venture；　and　the　dog；

Most　likely；　was　the　only　man　who　knew　him。

A　dog；　for　all　I　know；　is　what　he　needs

As　much　as　anything　right　here　to…day；

To　counsel　him　about　his　disillusions；

Old　aches；　and　parturitions　of　what's　coming；　

A　dog　of　orders；　an　emeritus；

To　wag　his　tail　at　him　when　he　comes　home；

And　then　to　put　his　paws　up　on　his　knees

And　say；　〃For　God's　sake；　what's　it　all　about？〃



I　don't　know　whether　he　needs　a　dog　or　not　

Or　what　he　needs。　　I　tell　him　he　needs　Greek；

I'll　talk　of　rules　and　Aristotle　with　him；

And　if　his　tongue's　at　home　he'll　say　to　that；

〃I　have　your　word　that　Aristotle　knows；

And　you　mine　that　I　don't　know　Aristotle。〃

He's　all　at　odds　with　all　the　unities；

And　what's　yet　worse；　it　doesn't　seem　to　matter；

He　treads　along　through　Time's　old　wilderness

As　if　the　tramp　of　all　the　centuries

Had　left　no　roads　　and　there　are　none；　for　him；

He　doesn't　see　them；　even　with　those　eyes；　

And　that's　a　pity；　or　I　say　it　is。

Accordingly　we　have　him　as　we　have　him　

Going　his　way；　the　way　that　he　goes　best；

A　pleasant　animal　with　no　great　noise

Or　nonsense　anywhere　to　set　him　off　

Save　only　divers　and　inclement　devils

Have　made　of　late　his　heart　their　dwelling　place。

A　flame　half　ready　to　fly　out　sometimes

At　some　annoyance　may　be　fanned　up　in　him；


But　soon　it　falls；　and　when　it　falls　goes　out；

He　knows　how　little　room　there　is　in　there

For　crude　and　futile　animosities；

And　how　much　for　the　joy　of　being　whole；

And　how　much　for　long　sorrow　and　old　pain。

On　our　side　there　are　some　who　may　be　given

To　grow　old　wondering　what　he　thinks　of　us

And　some　above　us；　who　are；　in　his　eyes；

Above　himself；　　and　that's　quite　right　and　English。

Yet　here　we　smile；　or　disappoint　the　gods

Who　made　it　so：　　the　gods　have　always　eyes

To　see　men　scratch；　and　they　see　one　down　here

Who　itches；　manor…bitten　to　the　bone；

Albeit　he　knows　himself　　yes；　yes；　he　knows　

The　lord　of　more　than　England　and　of　more

Than　all　the　seas　of　England　in　all　time

Shall　ever　wash。　　D'ye　wonder　that　I　laugh？

He　sees　me；　and　he　doesn't　seem　to　care；

And　why　the　devil　should　he？　　I　can't　tell　you。



I'll　meet　him　out　alone　of　a　bright　Sunday；

Trim；　rather　spruce；　and　quite　the　gentleman。

〃What　ho；　my　lord！〃　say　I。　　He　doesn't　hear　me；

Wherefore　I　have　to　pause　and　look　at　him。

He's　not　enormous；　but　one　looks　at　him。

A　little　on　the　round　if　you　insist；

For　now；　God　save　the　mark；　he's　growing　old；

He's　five　and　forty；　and　to　hear　him　talk

These　days　you'd　call　him　eighty；　then　you'd　add

More　years　to　that。　　He's　old　enough　to　be

The　father　of　a　world；　and　so　he　is。

〃Ben；　you're　a　scholar；　what's　the　time　of　day？〃

Says　he；　and　there　shines　out　of　him　again

An　aged　light　that　has　no　age　or　station　

The　mystery　that's　his　　a　mischievous

Half…mad　serenity　that　laughs　at　fame

For　being　won　so　easy；　and　at　friends

Who　laugh　at　him　for　what　he　wants　the　most；

And　for　his　dukedom　down　in　Warwickshire；　

By　which　you　see　we're　all　a　little　jealous。　。　。　。

Poor　Greene！　　I　fear　the　color　of　his　name

Was　even　as　that　of　his　ascending　soul；

And　he　was　one　where　there　are　many　others；　

Some　scrivening　to　the　end　against　their　fate；

Their　puppets　all　in　ink　and　all　to　die　there；

And　some　with　hands　that　once　would　shade　an　eye

That　scanned　Euripides　and　Aeschylus

Will　reach　by　this　time　for　a　pot…house　mop

To　slush　their　first　and　last　of　royalties。

Poor　devils！　and　they　all　play　to　his　hand；

For　so　it　was　in　Athens　and　old　Rome。

But　that's　not　here　or　there；　I've　wandered　off。

Greene　does　it；　or　I'm　careful。　　Where's　that　boy？



Yes；　he'll　go　back　to　Stratford。　　And　we'll　miss　him？

Dear　sir；　there'll　be　no　London　here　without　him。

We'll　all　be　riding；　one　of　these　fine　days；

Down　there　to　see　him　　and　his　wife　won't　like　us；

And　then　we'll　think　of　what　he　never　said

Of　women　　which；　if　taken　all　in　all

With　what　he　did　say；　would　buy　many　horses。

Though　nowadays　he's　not　so　much　for　women：

〃So　few　of　them；〃　he　says；　〃are　worth　the　guessing。〃

But　there's　a　work　at　work　when　he　says　that；

And　while　he　says　it　one　feels　in　the　air

A　deal　of　circumambient　hocus…pocus。

They've　had　him　dancing　till　his　toes　were　tender；

And　he　can　feel　'em　now；　come　chilly　rains。

There's　no　long　cry　for　going　into　it；

However；　and　we　don't　know　much　about　it。

The　Fitton　thing　was　worst　of　all；　I　fancy；

And　you　in　Stratford；　like　most　here　in　London；

Have　more　now　in　the　‘Sonnets'　than　you　paid　for；

He's　put　her　there　with　all　her　poison　on；

To　make　a　singing　fiction　of　a　shadow

That's　in　his　life　a　fact；　and　always　will　be。

But　she's　no　care　of　ours；　though　Time；　I　fear；

Will　have　a　more　reverberant　ado

About　her　than　about　another　one

Who　seems　to　have　decoyed　him；　married　him；

And　sent　him　scuttling　on　his　way　to　London；　

With　much　already　learned；　and　more　to　learn；

And　more　to　follow。　　Lord！　how　I　see　him　now；

Pretending；　maybe　trying；　to　be　like　us。

Whatever　he　may　have　meant；　we　never　had　him；

He　failed　us；　or　escaped；　or　what　you　will；　

And　there　was　that　about　him　（God　knows　what；　

We'd　flayed　another　had　he　tried　it　on　us）

That　made　as　many　of　us　as　had　wits

More　fond　of　all　his　easy　distances

Than　one　another's　noise　and　clap…your…shoulder。

But　think　you　not；　my　friend；　he'd　never　talk！

Talk？　　He　was　eldritch　at　it；　and　we　listened　

Thereby　acquiring　much　we　knew　before

About　ourselves；　and　hitherto　had　held

Irrelevant；　or　not　prime　to　the　purpose。

And　there　were　some；　of　course；　and　there　be　now；

Disordered　and　reduced　amazedly

To　resignation　by　the　mystic　seal

Of　young　finality　the　gods　had　laid

On　everything　that　made　him　a　young　demon；

And　one　or　two　shot　looks　at　him　already

As　he　had　been　their　executioner；

And　once　or　twice　he　was；　not　knowing　it；　

Or　knowing；　being　sorry　for　poor　clay

And　saying　nothing。　。　。　。　　Yet；　for　all　his　engines；

You'll　meet　a　thousand　of　an　afternoon

Who　strut　and　sun　themselves　and　see　around　'em

A　world　made　out　of　more　that　has　a　reason

Than　his；　I　swear；　that　he　sees　here　to…day；

Though　he　may　scarcely　give　a　Fool　an　exit

But　we　mark　how　he　sees　in　everything

A　law　that；　given　we　flout　it　once　too　often；

Brings　fire　and　iron　down　on　our　naked　heads。

To　me　it　looks　as　if　the　power　that　made　him；

For　fear　of　giving　all　things　to　one　creature；

Left　out　the　first；　　faith；　innocence；　illusion；

Whatever　'tis