From t'other world to this little O, the earth: and, forsooth, to that same wooden O where the lives of men and women be shown forth in little: that is to say, mine own Globe, by Thames on Bankside.
This is but one of many figurings-forth of the ancient Globe where my Lord Chamberlain's men did play with Burbage at their head: itself, alas, burnt to ashes in 1613 by a scurvy ill-fortuned cannon-shot in my Henry VIII. It was new-built the year after, and stood fast for threescore years more until an unkindness of Puritans destroy'd it. Now its offspring may be seen in Tokyo, Rome, and Texas; one in Berlin is a-building and one in Sweden built all of ice: a thing to wonder at.
My heart giveth much unto them all. Yet the Globe in London, which standeth near enough where stood the first, is mine especial care. At the first roll of the drums for Henry V some seven years since, methought I heard mine own heart to beat again. And in sooth, Master Rylance hath there assembled as hardy a cry of players as ever drank deep at the Mermaid, with a doughty crew of clothiers and masters of motion, dancing and musick. Their playing hath joy'd me much: their antick Macbeth of writhing music, their sad-and-merry Twelfth Night, their Richard Third play'd by a company of sprightly dames who out-Burbaged Burbage. These summer days, Measure for Measure, Romeo and Juliet and Much Ado About Nothing are to be seen, an you please.
Indeed, Master Rylance hath done me the office of a friend. Were I yet living, I might well desire some moments' privy converse with that same sweet-voiced gentleman, who giveth breath to my lines in such pretty halting tones. Dead as I am, he hath given me gifts beyond my spirit's conceiving.
But hear you, gentles: take not this my praise of one playhouse to mean that I have any the less love for all the rest. My Measure for Measure playeth now at the National Theatre as well as at the Globe: the one laid in these latter days, 'tother in mine own, and I am well pleas'd with both. Whether the players go in silks, denim or naught but skin, 'tis no matter, so it be well done. He (or she, forsooth) that speaketh my words on a stage shall be my brother in craft, be it in playhouse, schoolhouse or public-house, before a public throng'd as an army or scarce as honest lovers. Be thou Danish prince or hurried messenger, know thou this: thou art of mine own, and my blessing (frail thing as 'tis) is on thee. Go thou well.
Posted by Shakespeare at July 16, 2004 11:53 PM