Today, gentles, I rejoice. And wit ye why? For that from this day henceforth, whomsoever will may write unto me.
For wit ye well, I came not back to this little O, the earth, only to hear myself speak as in an empty theatre. Sooth to tell, I am no more an actor on this same stage, but a groundling merely. Without your most sweet voices, this chronicle goes not forward, but remaineth as a dull play, remember'd of none.
So, trusty reader: hast seen aught of my works? Or read or played in them perchance? What think'st thou thereunto?
Wast thou forced to read them under the schoolmaster's rod, that all understanding was beaten out of thy poor head, and my words became as ashes to thee? If it be so, then thou art wronged as I am, and I sorrow for both our sakes. Would that I could make thee amends! My plays were never writ to be a prison for young aching heads: all mine intent was only to please those that pleased to hear.
Dost thou love? Hast a heart in thee, or a pickled herring? If thou art brought to bay by the blind bow-boy, I too have been so maz'd in my time. I writ much of love: now I would hear of thine.
And what of the deeds of princes, their subtle ministers, their fawning flatterers? I writ of nations wreck'd by deep-revolving courtiers, by weak or all-too-prideful sovereigns, by worldly churchmen: and saved, perchance, by the hand of one warrior, or by one esquire in his garden who knows not what he does. War was ever my theme: the sounding of alarums and the flash of swords to fright the groundlings from their sleep, and make them to cry God for Harry, England and Saint George! Yet ever in my thought, as in theirs, was the waste wrought by war, the mighty weariness, the slaying and wounding of boys and women, and all they who thought to die some day of a surfeit, or of overmuch drink, but never upon the sword.
Somewhat too much of this. It hath been said, gentles, that all men and women are merely players upon this great stage of fools. And a player, let me tell ye, is no mean thing to be. I would hear your speeches, your passions, your wit, your history. Now fair befall those that take up the pen!
Faith and troth but I take a sinfull pride in my Twelfth Night. It speaketh of no kings, no deep philosophie nor no such great matter, but in its small sphere it showeth forth the many masks of the human heart.
Which maketh me to think on a thing remarkable in this new world: namely the marriage of man with man, and maid with maid. Now for love of this colour, I myself did write many a woeful sonnet; and the thing itself goeth back, so we read, to the noble Greeks and yet further.
Yet in my time, we did never think to wed; for though our Church of England was begun to give old King Harry leave to wed with all the dames he pleased, yet holy wedlock could not extend to such pairings as I and my superb youth (ye shall pardon me his name) even had I not been contracted to my good Anne.
'Twixt that time and this, many hundreds of years lie now cold in their graves. And this I say, gentles, in this new world to which I am awakened, of this sort of wedding: though to my sense it be strange, yet I can see no harm in it. And though it would quite have undone the plots of my As You Like It and of my What You Will too, yet there is matter in this theme for new plays, and marvellous merry ones.
And to those who say that the act itself be damnable: here I stand to give them the lie. Even poor Kit Marlowe, who spent his life believing himself damn'd and labouring to make himself more so, was quite put out of countenance at his hour of reckoning, when ugly Hell failed to gape nor Lucifer came not.
So though a spirit, believe me, good gentles, I am no devill. But forsooth, this day I am Belle de Jour. And so, perchance, art thou.
I never did make a play in which the King and the Fool were one and the same, saving perhaps only my Lear. But there, the Fool's part was writ for my true touchstone, Robert Armin. Whereas this same great fool of America maketh me much to wish that old Will Kempe were yet here to play him.
Think on it, gentles: Bottom, in his dream, made an emperor! Or Dogberry, from police constable, become a great man, prince of a nation. Such a play I could make! Being no longer living, I need fear no Master of the Revels to stay me: but alas, being dead, my playmaking days are done.
Perchance it is for the best. For though this same Prince Shrublet is himself excellent matter for a comedy, yet 'twould be a marvellous dark one, and some years must pass before the tragedies he hath wrought be not felt so near. As with my Richard III, one might say, though 'tis true that prince was much maligned.
So in closing, I offer ye one prince's history which made me much to laugh: a right merry game of Hamlet. Play ye well!
Good gentles, if my words be overbold,
Pardon I crave. I come with all good will
In mine own person. When my tale is told,
Be you content, and I your servant still.
More than this earth I never did desire,
This little O where I have sometime play’d;
To higher stage I never did aspire
Than good oak boards by London joyners laid.
My small time pass’d, I too did pass away
Unto strange realms of peace perpetuall,
Whereof I strongly am forbid to say
A word—else, gentles, I would tell you all.
Yet e’en in that fair land mine eyes did long
Once to behold this earthly stage again;
Amid the pageants of the starry throng
I sigh’d to hear the daily plays of men
And women too: wherefore I am returned
There whence mine inspiration first did spring:
My prologue done, to you mine eyes are turned.
The stage is now your own: Your play’s the thing
Brings forth my words. So, gentles, think no ill;
For all that’s done here is by your good will.