Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
--As You Like It, II, i
And yet those who took wounds or lost friends in London's sad slaughter these two days gone will give me the lie, if not a blow across the face, for saying so; this bout of adversity hath been bitter to them. Though the good wishes of a dead poet can be little worth at such a time, they are all I have to give; an thou be one so hurt or so bereft, my thoughts are with thee this day and all days.
And yet I do much wonder and admire at the way in which ugly actions such as this same do draw forth the undaunted mettle of these citizens who have been my hearers, my judges and my theme. The smell of powder will ne'er drive them into the tyrant's shadow: the spirit of London's dwellers hath been many times tried in the fire, and hath proven true gold indeed.
As witness these same words of one Ariel Dorfman, a true Ariel he and no Caliban. Be assur'd, sir, London loves thee as thou lovest her: well and knowingly.
I hear news which grieves me: that my fair city of London, where I wrote and play'd, hath been sore wounded with base treachery. Even in her day of triumph, some rabble of base villains did think to undermine her defences, smiting her below ground, vile slinking cullions as they are.
But London is no green-sickness virgin, to be sent reeling from one blow to her nether regions. Nay, faith, the old dame is made of sterner stuff; beneath her cloud-capp'd towers she is stone and steel and solid English earth, and any dint in her honour will be soon made whole. Since my time, she hath endured frost, fire and plague; she hath known battle in her streets, and fire hath been dropt on her out of the air; and she suffer'd much in the Irish wars. She has weathered all, and she will weather this.
The words of London's Mayor and those of some of her citizens tell me I am not i'the wrong.