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PROVERBS OF HELL. act one ivan the terrible
I have this dream. This recurring dream, I've had it since I was inside. I'm floating out in the middle of the bay. Middle of the water. Just gray water. Morning water. The sky lightening as the sun's about to rise. And if I could just point the bow, find a wind or an oar, paddle with my goddamn hands if I had to, to a different shore. Start a new life. That dream always ends with the sunrise. Always. I never get further than that sunrise.
Everything is as it was before me. And I am broken apart and all the littlest pieces of me are just recycled and I am billions of other places and my atoms are in plants, bugs, the animals, and I am like the stars that are in the sky. There one moment and then just scattered across the Goddamn cosmos.
- MIDNIGHT MASS.
The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive To kill thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any harm, alas, nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I'm sure I never wish'd them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will; But if my simple pray'rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But oh, my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain. Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands; Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin.
Had it liv'd long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false or more than he. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better then The love of false and cruel men.
O help, O help! I see it faint, And die as calmly as a saint. See how it weeps! The tears do come, Sad, slowly dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam, so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these.
I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It till it do o'erflow with mine, Then place it in Diana's shrine.
Now my sweet fawn is vanish'd to Whither the swans and turtles go, In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure. O do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.
First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble, and withal Let it be weeping too; but there Th' engraver sure his art may spare, For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone; Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there. There at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN / ANDREW MARVELL
