Tonight from the Royal Shakespeare theatre Stratford-upon-Avon,
Judi Dench, Helen Mirren, Ian McKellen, Benedict Cumberbatch,
David Suchet, Tim Minchin, Al Murray, Rufus Hound, Meera Sayal,
Rorry Kinnear, Akala
Ann-Marie Duff, and many more join together to celebrate
the life and work of William Shakespeare.
The Jets are gonna have their day tonight.
The Sharks are gonna have their way tonight.
The Puerto Ricans grumble: "Fair fight."
But if they start a rumble, we'll rumble 'em right.
We're gonna hand 'em a surprise Tonight.
We're gonna cut 'em down to size Tonight.
We said, "OK, no rumpus, No tricks."
But just in case they jump us, We're ready to mix
Tonight.
We're gonna rough it tonight.
We're gonna jazz it up and have us a ball!
They're gonna get it tonight.
The more they turn it on the harder they'll fall!
Well, they began it!
And we're the ones to stop 'em once and for all, tonight!
Anita's gonna get her kicks tonight.
We'll have our private little mix tonight.
He'll walk in hot and tired, so what?
Don't matter if he's tired, as long as he's hot.
Tonight, tonight, won't be just any night,
Tonight there will be no morning star.
Tonight, tonight, I'll see my love tonight.
And for us, stars will stop where they are.
Today The minutes seem like hours,
The hours go so slowly,
And still the sky is light . . .
Oh moon, grow bright,
And make this endless day endless night!
Stop it!
I'm counting on you to be there tonight.
When Diesel wins it fair and square tonight.
That Puerto Rican punk'll go down.
And when he's hollers "Uncle", we'll tear up the town!
Tonight, tonight, Won't be just any night,
Tonight there will be no morning star.
Tonight, tonight, I'll see my love tonight.
And for us, stars will stop where they are.
Today the minutes seem like hours
The hours go so slowly, and still the sky is light.
Oh moon, grow bright
and make this endless day endless night!
Tonight.
Hello, and welcome to Shakespeare live.
This is exciting, isn't it?
Tonight we celebrate the life and work of William Shakespeare,
for it is exactly 400 years to the day since he died.
On April 23rd, 1616
We are here at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon,
barely a stone's throw from where he was born,
and where he is buried.
It's not just the great stories he writes, the wonderful characters hea creates,
and the memorable language.
Shakespeare tells us about ourselves.
He sees us from every angle.
Perhaps that is why, for more than four centuries,
he has inspired artists across the world.
From Berlioz to Bernstein,
to Hip-hop and Jazz,
From Ballet to Broadway, to Blues... and back.
And that's what we're celebrating tonight.
There really is something for everybody.
So sit back and enjoy
Shakespeare live!
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining schoolboy,
with his satchel and his shining morning face,
creeping like snail unwillingly to school.
Ahd then the lover,
sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation.
Even in the cannon's mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined, with eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes. And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history.
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans eyes, sans teeth, sans taste, sans everything.
The Seven Ages of Man represented by:
A tiny wee baby with a midwife from Warwick hospital,
A schoolboy from Shakespeare's own school,
A student from Wolverhampton
A soldier serving in the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers
A member of Her Majesty's Counsel
And a retired Royal Shakespeare Company Production Manager
And now the first of four short films about the life of William Shakespeare
introduced by a man who knows all about the Bard,
having played him onscreen in Shakespeare In Love.
It is, ofcourse, the lovely Joseph Fiennes
to introduce "The Seasons of Shakespeare's Life",
starting with Spring.
William Shakespeare was born in the Warwickshire market town of Stratford-upon-Avon
on this very day, April 23rd, 1564.
It's where he enjoyed the springtime of his life,
for it's here in Warwickshire that he was raised,
here in Stratford that he was educated,
and here in this hamlet that he enjoyed the first shoots of love.
In this cottage, in the village of Shottery,
lived a yeoman farmer's daughter called Anne Hathaway.
Perhaps, in this farmhouse, they exchanged love tokens,
perhaps under these eaves they whispered their sweetest nothings,
and, who knows, perhaps for Anne he began writing poetry.
Perhaps it's from this youthful springtime that he drew the inspiration for the song
Under the Greenwood Tree from his play "As You Like It".
In its verses we can hear the echoes of love at its most innocent and sublime.
Under a greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
Under a sweet bird's throat,
Who can hope for a sweeter note?
Come by me, Come by me
Here we'll find no enemy
But winter and rough weather
Life couldn't recompense me better
Than to die not my master's debtor
Those who ambition shun
Will live beneath the sun
Come by me, Come by me
Here we'll find no enemy
Come by me, Come by me
Here we'll find no enemy
But winter and rough weather
Oh, Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo.
Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague?
It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title.
Romeo, doff thy name.
And for thy name which is no part of thee take all myself.
I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night
So stumblest on my counsel?
By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of thy tongue's utterance,
yet I know the sound:
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
and the place death, considering who thou art.
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;
And but thou love me, let them find me here.
Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night
Lady, by yonder blessèd moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops
- O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
that monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
What shall I swear by?
Do not swear at all.
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.
If my heart's dear love—
Well, do not swear:
although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say 'It lightens.'
Sweet, good night.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night,
good night!
Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes,
peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Well, ah...
Looking at what their bodies are capable of doing.
I find it difficult to believe we are the same species.
The Balcony Scene from Romeo and Juliet,
of course, performed by Mariah Gale and Natey Jones.
And the Royal Ballet's Yasmine Naghdi and Matthew Ball
performing the same scene in Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet
with Kenneth Macmillan's famous choreography
The Royal Ballet commissioned the piece in 1964
for the tercentenary of Shakespeare's birth.
Where it was danced by Rudolph Nuyerev and Margaret Fontaine.
So it got a bit fruity backstage. The bounder came at me with a lute.
So I put him down with a perfect witty response!
Ah, what was that, Spenser?
I decked him!
Banter!
I haven't had this much fun since I was in prison!
Which time?
You're right! I have been loose!
Excuse me, is this where the theatre stars hang out?
Uhhh. Fan boy alert.
Should I give him an autograph or kill him?
I'll handle this.
Lad, you are addressing the finest theatrical stars of the age.
Ben Jonson, actor and writer, Kit Marlowe, playwright and...
Where's he gone?
Surprise! Master of disguise.
Brilliant.
And this is Gabriel Spenser, he's just an actor
but we let him hang around with us because he likes drinking and fighting.
He also does a good line in literary criticism.
This wine is literally disgusting.
Disgusting!
Well, maybe I'll come back when you're a bit less busy and, em... drunk.
Well, that will be never. What do you want, spod?
Well, actually I was after some advice.
You see, basically, at the moment I'm, like, mainly like an actor,
but, I'm, like, looking to get more into writing,
"cause at the moment I specialise in playing old man parts, at the moment.
Old men parts! Old men parts!
Very good. Anyway, my name is William Shakespeare.
Set square?
No. Shakespeare.
Shark beer?
Shakespeare.
Shake n' Vac? Shakespeare.
Soup spoon? Shakespeare.
Snack pot?
Shake...
Stop getting my name wrong on purpose.
UUUhhhhh!
Well, anyway, I write plays.
Listen, up skateboard: Writing plays is a rookie mistake.
Real writers drink, fight and go to prison!
They may also be a spy, mentioning no names.
Ding, ding ding! Ding, ding ding! Ding, ding ding! Ding, ding ding!
Yes, I'm a spy, you see.
No, I know. I got it.
Yes, well I have a wife and kids. I need to earn a living.
Unlike some people.
Anyway, I'm pretty good at writing plays.
A lot of buzz around me at the moment.
Oooh look at me, I'm Billy Springle-Sprangle
and I write plays, and I plan for the future.
I genuinely don't know who that was supposed to be.
Who was it?
Well, it was him! Look I'm not good at impressions,
but I am good at fighting.
Consider yourself taunted.
Outside!
Listen buddy, I'm a writer not a fighter,
and I'm going all the way to the top, with or without you guys.
Everybody will know my name: William...
Shopping trolley.
Should have seen that coming.
Good for you, Shakira.
Top bloke! Not.
The Horrible Histories gang there, with a playful take on the past.
And now Shakespeare's own take on a bit of history, the history of King Henry V.
Here the young king, having conquered France
at the Battle of Agincourt, finds himself powerless
and tongue-tied in his attempts to woo the French princess,
Katherine, with whom he hopes to unite
the English and French thrones.
to teach a soldier terms such as will enter the lady's ear
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?
Your majesty sall mock at me: I cannot speak your Angland.
Oh...
Fair Katherine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart,
I will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue.
Do you like me, Kate?
Pardonez moi.
I cannot tell what is "like me".
An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.
Que dit-il?
Que je suis semblable à les anges.
Oui, vraiment, sauf votre Grâce, ainsi dit-il.
I said so, fair Katherine, and I must not blush to affirm it.
Ô bon Dieu!
Les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies.
What says she, fair one?
That the tongues of men are full of deceits?
Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of dishit:
dat is de princess.
I'faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding.
I am glad thou canst speak no better English.
I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say 'I love you'.
Then if you urge me farther than to say, 'Do you in faith?',
I wear out my suit.
Give me your answer, i'faith, do, and so
clap hands and a bargain. How say you, lady?
Sauf votre honneur, me understand well.
Marry,
if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate,
why you undid me.
If I could win a lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle
with my armour on my back, I should quickly leap into a wife.
But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly
nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation.
If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate,
whose face is not worth sunburning, that never looks in his glass
for love of anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook.
I speak to thee plain soldier:
if thou canst love me for this,
take me: if not, to say to thee that I shall die,
is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no.
Yet I love thee too.
And while thou liv'st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy,
for he perforce must do thee right because he hath not the gift to woo in other places.
A speaker is but a prater, a rhyme is but a ballad,
A good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop,
a black beard will turn white,
a curled pate will grow bald,
a full face will wither,
a fair eye will wax hollow, but a good heart, Kate,
is the sun and the moon.
Or rather the sun and not the moon because it shines bright and never changes.
But keeps his course truly.
If thou would have such a one, take me.
And take me, take a soldier. Take a soldier, take a King.
Very good.
So, Katherine. Yes?
If Shakespeare were alive today, what would he be?
He would be, ah, four-hundred and fifty-two.
No, ah. Obviously, that's not quite what I meant.
He was a the forefront of popular culture,
So today he would be, what?
He would be writing films, he'd be writing TV shows...
Who are, who are today's linguistic geniuses?
Well, I will tell you.
Tell me.
Ah, and who, well, in my opinion.
Yeah.
Who better to answer than Hip Hop Shakespeare
with Akala and Nitin Sawhney?
Thank you. Yeah.
If all of the world's a stage, then light my way,
because out, out, your brief candle is not.
Four centuries past, yet I still cannot grasp
that undiscovered country that makes words immortal.
If the good that men do is interred with their bones,
then this precious stone is a beauty too rich.
Methinks it's a jewel in the ear of us all,
as the wisest words spoken are spoken by fools.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, I want to endure.
desiring this man's art that is yours
Time does waste me,
days do chase me,
flesh goes pasty,
and I still ain't found greatness. What meat and did they feed this Caesar
I wanna taste the milk even if it is gall.
Your mortal coil sprang back unbounded
And founded the language that is used by us all.
The ink of your quill
is a statue in stone,
When I think and I feel I have captured your tone
I remember the poet and the lunatic, are one and the same,
only sometimes men are masters of their fate.
The rest of the days, the song that plays
has lighted our ways to a dusty death.
A fool's paradise, a shadow of a dream, off with his head.
I don't want to be next.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light.
When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light.
When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light.
When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
As men can breathe and eyes can see, this gives life to thee.
When I think there's not a note of mine worth noting,
And trouble deaf, heaven with my bootless cries,
When I get tongue tied, my soul runs dry,
I remember you spoke of the marriage of the minds.
And I presume to take your place in a nutshell,
I'm the King of infinite space, a waste of shame, so full of blame,
expense of my spirit and disgraced in my name.
I'm un-Kinged again. Wish me a pauper.
I have not learnt from the things that you taught us.
Modest doubt is the beacon of the wise.
He lives in the sorrow that in virtue dies.
The soul is the music of men's lives.
A batallion of sorrows never coming as single spies.
All this I know well you're not well enough to to shun the heaven that leads me to this hell.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light.
When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light.
When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light.
When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
As men can breathe and eyes can see,
this gives life to thee.
What's past is prologue so it makes sense
we are gathered four centuries after your death
speaking your words
as if produced by our sweat.
though you are king with the pen
I have questions of what you have said.
If Brutus is honourable,
what then is horrible?
When you wrote,
did you know that all this was possible?
Were you really great?
Did you feel it in your bones?
Or did you have this greatness thrust upon you?
I feel that you knew. Should I really give the devil his due?
Listen to many and speak to few.
Or so you said. Your false tongue speaks daggers.
'Cause you touched uncountable millions with no utterance.
Your words were never scarce nor spent in vain,
They call you Shakespeare, but what's in a name?
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light.
When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light. When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
As men can breathe and eyes can see,
this gives life to thee.
Hell and night, guide me to the world's light. When I write, it could turn this prison cell bright.
As men can breathe and eyes can see,
this gives life to thee.
If all the world's a stage, then light my way.
Because out, out, the brief candle is not.
Four centuries past, yet I still cannot grasp
that undiscovered country that makes words immortal.
If the good that men do is interred with their bones,
then this precious stone is a beauty too rich.
Methinks it's a jewel in the air of us all,
as the wisest words spoken are spoken by fools.
As Spring turns to Summer, love can turn to Madness:
And Love certainly does mad things to people,
in these three scenes from As You Like It, Twelfth Night
and a Midsummer's Nights Dream.
Rosalind, dressed as a boy, woos her beloved Orlando,
who somehow fails to recognise her.
The Steward Malvolio who lusts after his mistress, Olivia,
has been tricked into dressing up to impress her;
And Titania, the queen of the fairies,
finds herself enchanted by a poor old weaver called Bottom,
who's been transformed into a donkey.
Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Why, how now, Orlando.
Where have you been all this while?
You a lover?
An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
Break an hour's promise in love?
He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break
but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love,
it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder,
but I'll warrant him heart-whole.
Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight:
I had as lief be wooed of a snail.
Of a snail?
Ay, of a snail.
But come, now I will be your Rosalind
in a more coming-on disposition.
And ask me what you will. I will grant it.
Then, love me, Rosalind.
Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
And wilt thou have me?
Ay, and twenty such.
What sayest thou?
Are you not good?
I hope so.
Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?
Now tell me how long you would have her
after you have possessed her.
For ever and a day.
Say 'a day,' without the 'ever.'
No, no, Orlando.
Men are April when they woo,
December when they wed:
Maids are May when they are maids,
but the sky changes when they are wives.
I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen,
more clamorous than a parrot against rain,
more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey:
I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain,
and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry;
I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep.
But will my Rosalind do so?
By my life, she will do as I do.
O, but she is wise.
Or else she could not have the wit to do this:
the wiser, the waywarder:
make the doors upon a woman's wit and it will out at the casement;
shut that and 'twill out at the key-hole;
stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
By two o'clock I will be with thee again.
Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove:
my friends told me as much, and I thought no less:
that flattering tongue of yours won me: 'tis but one cast away,
and so, come, death!
Two o'clock is your hour?
Ay, sweet Rosalind.
By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me,
and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous,
if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour,
I will think you the most pathetical break-promise and the most hollow lover
and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind
that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful:
therefore beware my censure and keep your promise.
With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so adieu.
Well, Time should be the old justice that examines all such offenders,
and let Time try: adieu.
O that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love!
But it cannot be sounded: my affection hath an unknown bottom,
like the bay of Portugal.
I'll tell thee, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando:
I'll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
Where is he?
Where is my steward, Malvolio?
He is sad and civil
and suits well for a servant with my fortunes.
Where is Malvolio?
He's coming, madam;
but in very strange manner. He is sure possessed, madam.
Why, what's the matter? Does he rave?
No, Madam, he does nothing but smile:
your ladyship were best to have some guard about you, if he come;
for sure the man is tainted in 's wits.
Go call him hither.
I am as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be.
How now, Marvolio?
Sweet lady, ho, ho.
Smilest thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
Sad, lady! I could be sad.
This does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering,
but what of that? If it please the eye of one,
it is with me as the very true sonnet is,
"Please one, and please all."
Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.
It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed:
I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.
Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
To bed?
Ay, sweet-heart, and I'll come to thee.
God comfort thee!
Why dost thou smile so and kiss thy hand so oft?
How do you, Malvolio?
At your request! Yes, nightingales follow daws!
Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
'Be not afraid of greatness:' 'twas well writ.
What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?
Some are born great—"
"Some achieve greatness—"
What sayest thou?
'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'
Heaven restore thee!
'Remember who commended thy yellow stockings.
Thy yellow stockings?
'And wished to see thee cross-gartered.'
Cross-gartered?
'Go to thou art made, if thou desirest to be so;'
Am I made?
'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'
Why, this is very midsummer madness.
Why do they run away?
O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee?
What do you see?
You see an asshead of your own, do you?
Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee.
Thou art translated.
I see their knavery:
this is to make an ass of me,
to fright me if they could. But...
I will not stir from this place, do what they can.
I will walk up and down here and I will sing, that they shall hear that I am not afraid.
The ouzel cock, so black of hue
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
The wren with little quill—
Thank you, thank you.
What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?
The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
The plainsong cuckoo gray,
Whose note full many a man doth mark
And dares not answer "Nay"—
I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again.
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note.
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape.
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me.
On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.
Me thinks mistress you should have little reason for that.
And yet, to say the truth, reason and love
do keep little company together now-a-days.
The more the pity that some honest neighbours
will not make them friends.
Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.
Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.
Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood,
I have enough to serve mine own turn.
Out of this wood do not desire to go:
Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.
I am a spirit of no common rate; The summer still doth tend upon my state;
And I do love thee:
therefore, go with me;
I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep;
And I will purge thy mortal grossness so that thou shalt like an airy spirit go.
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed
Ready.
And I.
Where shall we go?
Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;
Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;
The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,
And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes,
To have my love to bed and to arise;
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.
Hail, mortal.
Hail.
I cry your worship's mercy, heartily:
Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.
The moon methinks looks with a watery eye;
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,
Lamenting some enforcèd chastity.
Tie up my love's tongue. Bring him silently.
William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway were married in 1582.
He was 18, and she was 26 and pregnant.
Six months later, their daughter Susanna was born
and two years after that the young couple had twins. Hamnet and Judith.
And soon after that, Shakespeare left Anne and the children in Stratford
and went to London, where he found a career in theatre
writing plays and performing for a company of actors
called the Lord Chamberlain's Men.
Of course we can't know what he felt about his departure
but as he enters the creative Summertime of his life,
Shakespeare describes how the course of true love never did run smooth.
Love can be a madness, a fever.
It can spin girls into boys, twist a man into a fool,
a clown into a donkey.
And sometimes love departs on silent wings.
And nowhere is that restless spirit better captured than in this song
from Much Ado About Nothing.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more.
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never,
Then sigh not so, but let them go, and be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no more, Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leafy:
Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny.
In Much Ado About Nothing, a couple meet again after a long time apart.
They have been lovers in the past, but love has turned sour,
And left its scars.
Performing as Beatrice and Benedick now are Meera Syal and Sanjeev Bhaskar.
A kind overflow of kindness.
How much better is it to weep at Joy
then joy at weeping?
I wonder, you will still be talking, Signor Benedick.
nobody marks you.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?
Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signor Benedick?
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come into her presence.
Then is courtesy a turncoat.
But it is certain I am loved of all ladies,
only you excepted.
And I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none.
A dear happiness to women.
They would have else been troubled with a pernicious suitor.
Oh, I thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor for that.
I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow
than a man swear he loves me.
God keep your ladyship still in that mind!
So some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face.
Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such a face as yours were.
Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.
A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.
I would my horse had the speed of your tongue,
and so good a continuer.
But keep your way, in God's name;
I have done.
You always end with a jade's trick:
I know you of old.
When the French composer Berlioz
first saw Shakespeare performed in Paris in 1827,
he said it struck him like a thunder bolt.
He became obsessed with Shakespeare,
writing a Romeo and Juliet symphony,
an overture for King Lear,
and, at the end of his life, an opera called Beatrice and Benedict
based on Much Ado About Nothing.
And now, here's a duet from that opera.
The night before her wedding,
with her maid Ursula, the bride-to-be, Hero,
contemplates her marriage to her beloved Claudio.
Vous soupirez, madame!
Le bonheur oppresse mon âme!
Je ne puis y songer sans trembler malgré moi.
Claudio! Claudio! je vais donc être à toi!
Nuit paisible et sereine!
La lune, douce reine,
Qui plane en souriant;
L'insecte des prairies,
Dans les herbes fleuries
En secret bruissant;
Philomèle Qui mêle
Aux murmures du bois
Les splendeurs de sa voix;
L'hirondelle Fidèle,
Caressant sous nos toits
Sa nichée en émoi;
Dans sa coupe de marbre
Ce jet d'eau retombant,
Écumant;
L'ombre de ce grand arbre,
En spectre se mouvant
Sous le vent;
Harmonies Infinies,
Que vous avez d'attraits
Et de charmes secrets
Pour les âmes attendries!
And now from an opera to a Broadway musical.
From Cole Porter's 1948 hit based on The Taming of the Shrew,
Kiss me Kate.
Hey, how the hell do we get out of here?
How did we get in here?
Wow! Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow!
What is it?
No, no no. Nooo!
Holly Molly, we walked into a show!
Hey, A lot of nice people here.
Handsome guys and beautiful dolls.
Hey, hey, John,
who's that guy?
What guy?
That guy.
He looks just like that beautiful young broad on them pictures.
What pictures?
Here: them pictures.
Oh, yeah. How you doin'?
He looks like he's on a date.
Oh.
How do you think it's going?
Hey what 're you doin'?
We're talking to these people here!
???
You waving that at me?
Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow!
???
If any of you bums are trying to impress
some fancy babe you bought out here tonight,
Why how not listen to a couple of guys with a little expertrise...
What? Rexpecty.
What? Arxpectice?
What he means is
we've got some good advice for a good time, like this:
The girls today in society
Go for classical poetry
To win their hearts one must quote with ease
Aeschylus and Euripides
One must know Homer And b'lieve me bo
Sophocles and also Sapho ho.
Unless you know Shelley and Keats and Pope
Dainty debbies will call you a dope
But the poet of them all That will start 'em simply ravin'
Is the poet people call
The Bard of Stratford-on-Avon.
Where is that? Wha...?
Where is it? The whole world knows where the Bard was born!
It's right here in America.
Brush up your Shakespeare
Start quoting him now
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow
Just declaim a few lines from Othella
And she'll think you're a helluva fella
If your blond don't respond when you flatter her
Just remind her what Tony told Cleopatere
If she fights when her clothes you are mussing
What are clothes? 'Much Ado About Nussing'
Brush up your Shakespeare And they'll all kowtow.
Brush up your Shakespeare
Start quoting him now
Brush up your Shakespeare
And the women you will wow
With the wife of the British Embessida.
Try a crack out of Troilus and Cressida.
If she says she won't buy it or tike it.
Make her tike it, what's more As You Like It.
If she says your behavior is heinous,
Kick her right in the 'Coriolanus'.
Brush up your Shakespeare
and they'll all kowtow.
Thank you, Maestro.
Brush up your Shakespeare Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare And the women you will wow
If you can't be a ham and do Hamlet.
She will not give a damn or a damnlet.
Just recite an occasional sonnet
And your lap will have honey upon it.
When your baby is pleading for pleasure.
Let her sample your Measure for Measure.
Brush up your Shakespeare and they'll all kowtow.
???
and they'll all kowtow.
???
and they'll all kowtow.
Brush up your Shakespeare Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare And the women you will wow.
Better mention the Merchant of Venice
When her sweet pound 'o flesh you would menace.
If her virtue at first she defends well.
Just remind her that All's Well that Ends Well
And if still she won't give you a bonus.
You know what Venus got from Adonis.
Brush up your Shakespeare And they'll all kowtow.
???
And they'll all kowtow
Odds bodkins.
they'll all kowtow
Brush up your Shakespeare Start quoting him now.
Brush up your Shakespeare And the women you will wow.
If your goil is a Washington Heights dream.
Treat the kid to 'A Midsummer Night Dream'.
If she then wants and all by herself night.
Let her rest every 'leventh or Twelf' Night.
If because of your heat she gets huffy.
Simply play on and "Lay on, Macduffy!"
Brush up your Shakespeare And they'll all kowtow.
We trow.
And they'll all kowtow. We vow!
And they'll all kowtow.
Hey, how you doin'?
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England.
Simon Russell Beale with John of Gaunt's
famous celebration of England from Richard II,
a piece that has appeared in poetry anthologies
since the play was first published in 1597.
It's 1956. Jazz giant Duke Ellington is in Stratford, Ontario,
playing a few gigs with his band.
And there's a Shakespeare Festival on
and Duke Ellington takes a break from his music to go and see the show.
The Duke sneaks in at the back and sits in the aisle to watch.
So moved is he that he comes back the next night,
and the next, soaking it all up,
until eventually he is inspired to write his very own homage to Shakespeare.
Here is the Midlands Youth Jazz Orchestra
to play the opening of Duke Ellington's Such Sweet Thunder.
By the mid 1590s Shakespeare's career with the Lord Chamberlain's
men in London was flourishing.
He was riding high, having penned history plays
about Henry VI and Richard III,
and had high hopes for a little known love story called Romeo and Juliet.
Those successes must have seemed far removed from the humble beginnings
of this room on Henley Street, where Shakespeare was born.
But whilst his professional life was soaring, personal tragedy was soon to strike.
In 1596, one of the twins, his son Hamnet, died.
He was eleven years old.
The death must have had a profound effect on the playwright.
Perhaps, like any true artist, Shakespeare channelled that grief into his work,
for the years directly following the death of his son
were filled by the creation of some of the most exquisite writing in the English language.
A sea-change occurred, from comedy to tragedy.
Melancholia and poisoned longing cast dark shadows into his characters.
Woven into their souls are the threads of sardonic introspection and bleak dispair.
These plays, written in the autumn of his life,
were rich in the textures of human frailty.
What better example could we share than this sonorous refrain
from the lonely fool Feste in his bitter sweet play,
Twelfth Night.
When that I was and a little tiny boy.
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate.
For the rain it raineth every day.
When I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.
By swaggering could I never thrive.
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.
With toss-pots still had drunken heads.
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the worlds began,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain.
But that's all one, our play is done.
And we'll strive to please you every day.
To be or not to be, that is the question.
Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.
I mean, ye- yes, I m-, yes, but, if you don't mind a note:
Or, or. "To be OR not to be."
'Cause there's a cho- It's a cho-
Aye. To be OR... OR...
Yeah, that's right.
"To be OR... "
It's not the skull. What?
It's not the skull.
That's the wrong... It's the wrong speech. It's the wrong soliloquy.
It's Hamlet's... Hamlet always has a skull.
No, he doesn't.
Yeah, whatever.
Either way, It's "To be OOOR not to be, that is the question."
To be OOOR... Okay.
... not to be, that is the question.
Right.
Have you ever actually played...
... the dane?
The dane...
Haver I ever given my dane?
No. Nooo. Ohhh.
What are you saying?
Are you saying there is some reason I couldn't...
No, I...
Some, some... ... never said that.
intrinsic reason why audiences wouldn't accept me
as the prince of Denmark?
I never said that.
Say it, say it,
I will never play Hamlet in Stratford-upon-bloody-Avon,
I never said that.
because I'm ginger.
Is that what you're saying?
No! Of course not.
If I do... If you do...
When, when, I do, it will be "To be OOOR not to be".
To be OOOR...
Sorry, sorry, sorry. I just...
Erm... sorry, hi. I couldn't help it, I was just overhearing.
It's really not... Try this:
"To be or NOT to be, that is the question"
To be or NOT...
No. To be OOOR...
No, it's a, its' a choice. ... or not to be, that is the question.
There's no point in stressing "or".
Just try this:
To be or NOT to be...
So who are you?
I'm just an actor. So...
I suppose you've played Hamlet.
Yeah, I have, actually, yeah.
Oh, oh, sorry, I didn't realise.
That's allright. It's Eddie Redmayne!
Eddie Redmayne!
Oh, God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!
It's "To be or NOT to be, that is the question".
What are you doing?
Sorry, I... I loved you as the Danish girl.
Amazing, right?
That's right. It's "To be or NOT to be...
Yeah, to be or not...
To be OR...
Sorry, sorry.
To be OR...
These film stars, they don't really know.
Look: "To BE, or not to BEEE...
... that is the question.
So, To be or not to beeee...
OR not...
It's "To be or NOT to be, that is the question."
I suppose you're going to tell me you've played Hamlet.
Not yet.
But you can't... What?
You can't, you don't... What?
You're a... Go on, say it, what?
You, you don't have a...
pianist!
Oh, oh!
I'm a pianist. You almost broke my wrist, you psycho!
No, it's "To be or not to beee...
It's "To be OR...
Time out, time out!
Time out, sorry.
Just calm down, right? It's simple.
OOOOR.
Don't lose focus: To be or not to be, THAT is the question.
No, no. Yeah. That. That, land on it. Just...
THAT is the question. Sit on it, you can sit...
I suppose they let you play Hamlet?
Yeah.
To be or not... You can...
Broadchurch.
What's that supposed to mean?
It's a pretty... broad... church, isn't it?
The people... people they let play Hamlet.
That's really awful.
Yeah, so...
To be or not to be... THAT is the...
OR, OR!
To be or not to be...
No, no, no, no, no. Idiots!
To be or not to be, that IS the question.
-IS?... -IS? -NO, it's!
No, it's...
To be OR, OR!
... in the middle of the lines...
Hi, Eddie. Lend me your ears.
To be or not to be, that is THE question.
I don't believe it.
Actually...
OR... OR...
Not to be...
OR... OR...
Not to be...
To be or not TO be, that is the question.
The skull.
... no skull...
There's no skull in this bit.
Sorry, sorry, who are you?
It is I, Hamlet the Dame.
By the way...
She should leave him alone!
Might I have a word?
Might I... do you mind?
I Hate to ??? But just... just a minute.
Just a minute.
To be or not be, that is the QUESTION.
To be or not to be, that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them?
To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream—
ay, there's the rub.
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time.
But that the dread of something after death.
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will.
And makes us rather bear those ills we have.
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.
And thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.
And enterprises of great pitch and moment.
With this regard their currents turn awry.
And lose the name of action.
In the British Library is a manuscript of a play
About Henry VIII's Chancellor Sir Thomas More.
It's partly in Shakespeare's own handwriting. And this is the extraordinary speech he wrote,
as Thomas More quells a race riot in the City of London on May Day,
appealing to the mob to consider the plight of the foreign immigrants.
The strangers should be removed!
Grant them removed, and grant that this your noise.
Hath chid down all the majesty of England.
Imagine that you see the wretched strangers.
Their babies at their backs with their poor luggage.
Plodding to the ports and coasts for transportation.
And that you sit as kings in your desires.
Authority quite silenced by your brawl.
And you in ruff of your opinions clothed.
What had you got?
I'll tell you: you had taught
How insolence and strong hand should prevail.
How order should be quelled;and by this pattern.
Not one of you should live an aged man.
For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought.
With self same hand, self reasons, and self right.
Would shark on you, and men like ravenous fishes.
Feed on one another.
You'll put down strangers,
Kill them, cut their throats, possess their houses,
And lead the majesty of law in liom,
To slip him like a hound.
O, desperate as you are,
Wash your foul minds with tears, and those same hands,
That you like rebels lift against the peace,
Lift up for peace, and your unreverent knees,
Make them your feet to kneel to be forgiven!
Say now the king
(As he is clement, if th' offender mourn)
Should so much come to short of your great trespass
As but to banish you, whither would you go?
What country, by the nature of your error.
Should give you harbor? go you to France or Flanders,
To any German province, Spain or Portugal.
Nay, any where that not adheres to England. Why, you must needs be strangers:
Would you be pleased to find a nation of such barbarous temper
That, breaking out in hideous violence.
Would not afford you an abode on earth.
Whet their detested knives against your throats.
Spurn you like dogs, and like as if that God.
Owed not nor made not you, nor that the elements.
Were not all appropriate to your comforts.
But chartered unto them.
What would you think To be thus used?
This is the strangers' case;
And this your mountainish inhumanity.
Shakespeare is performed all over the world.
He is translated into every language, from Albanian to Zulu.
Here are scenes from two landmark productions that opened our eyes to his global influence.
South African writer and director, Welcome Msomi, brought his company to Britain in 1972
with his Zulu Macbeth, uMabatha.
While the Japanese director Yukio Ninagawa brought his famous Cherry Blossom Macbeth
to the Edinburgh Festival in 1985.
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes.
I all alone beweep my outcast state.
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate.
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope.
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd.
Desiring that man's art and that man's scope.
With what I most enjoy contented least.
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising.
Haply I think on thee, and then my state.
Like to the lark at break of day arising.
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings.
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Amazing. Amazing.
Rufus Wainwright singing his own version
of one Shakespeare's sonnets.
Shakespeare was about to enter his fortieth year
when Queen Elizabeth I died, in 1603.
When James VI of Scotland became the new king James the First,
Shakespeare's company was promoted, and became The King's Men.
But this was a troubled period:
A terrorist attack, the Gunpowder plot, nearly succeeded in blowing up the royal family
in Parliament in 1605.
The world seemed to have lost its moorings. It seemed to be adrift in a sea of uncertainty.
And this prevailing sense of doom and futility, is present in many of the tragedies
Shakespeare wrote at this time.
These next three scenes all take place in this darkness.
In King Lear we meet an old man who has resigned his crown
and been thrown out into the storm.
In Antony and Cleopatra, the queen of Egypt
prepares to confound her enemies and end her life.
but first, in Macbeth, we encounter a couple who have just committed murder.
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold.
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.
Hark! Peace!
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it.
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms.
Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them.
Whether they live or die.
Who's there? What, ho!
Alack, I am afraid they have awaked,
And 'tis not done.
Th' attempt and not the deed confounds us.
Hark! I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done 't
My husband!
I have done the deed.
Didst thou not hear a noise?
I heard the owl screech and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak?
When?
Now.
As I descended?
Ay.
Hark! Who lies i' th' second chamber?
Donalbain.
This is a sorry sight.
A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
There's one did laugh in's sleep,
and one cried "Murder!" That they did wake each other.
I stood and heard them.
But they did say their prayers, and address'd them again to sleep.
There are two lodged together.
One cried 'God bless us!' and 'Amen' the other.
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say 'Amen'.
When they did say "God bless us!"
Consider it not so deeply.
But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'?
I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' Stuck in my throat.
These deeds must not be thought after these ways;
So, it will make us mad.
Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep" —the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
the death of each day's life,
sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds,
great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
What do you mean?
Still it cried, 'Sleep no more!' to all the house:
'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more;
Macbeth shall sleep no more.'
Who was it that thus cried?
Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength,
to think so brainsickly of things.
Go get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hands.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go carry them;
and smear the sleepy grooms with blood.
I'll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done;
To look on 't again I dare not.
Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers:
the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures:
'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil.
If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal;
For it must seem their guilt.
Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha!
They pluck out mine eyes.
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?
No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas in incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
My hands are of your colour;
but I shame to wear a heart so white.
I hear a knocking at the south entry:
retire we to our chamber;
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy is it, then!
Your constancy hath left you unattended.
Hark! More knocking.
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers.
Be not lost so poorly in your thoughts.
To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself.
Wake Duncan with thy knocking. I would thou couldst.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!
rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout.
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires.
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts.
Singe my white head!
And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once.
That make ingrateful man!
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness.
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children.
You owe me no subscription: then let fall.
Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave.
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.
And yet I call you servile ministers.
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd.
Your high engender'd quarrels 'gainst a head.
So old and white as this.
O! O! 'tis foul!
No, I will be the pattern of all patience;
I will say nothing.
Now, Charmian!
Show me, my women, like a queen:
I am again for Cydnus, To meet Mark Antony:
Bring me my robe.
Finish, good lady;
the bright day is done. And we are for the dark.
Put on my crown.
I have immortal longings in me:
Now no more the juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip.
Yare, yare, good Iras; quick.
Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself.
To praise my noble act;
husband, I come:
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements.
I give to baser life.
So; have you done?
Come, then, and take the last warmth fom my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian;
Iras, long farewell.
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?
If thou and nature can so gently part.
The stroke of death is but as a lover's pinch.
Which hurts, and is desired.
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain;
that I may say, The gods themselves do weep!
This proves me base:
If she first meet the curled Antony,
He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss.
Which is my heaven to have.
Come, thou mortal wretch,
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate of life
at once untie: poor venomous fool.
Be angry, and dispatch.
O eastern star!
Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
Which sucks the nurse asleep?
O, break! O, break!
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,—
O Antony! What should I stay—
In this vile world? So, fare thee well.
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd.
Your crown's awry; I'll mend it, and then play.
Shakespeare spent the last few years of his life back in Stratford.
He died on this day, in 1616, his fifty-second birthday.
Though it is not known exactly how he died, a later account suggests
he had a merry meeting with his mates
drank too much and died of fever.
A fatal birthday binge.
He was buried here, at Holy Trinity Church.
In Stratford-upon-Avon.
During his life he wrote at least 37 plays,
only half of which were published before his death.
His winter years showed no let-up in his creative output.
In the last season of his life he discovered a lighter pallet
with which to paint his final plays.
Sories that explored the silver-lining between life and death.
From these last plays, Cymbeline, The Winter's Tale and The Tempest,
a new redemptive power emerged, which still has the ability to move us today.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where.
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
To weep.
Shakespeare's tragedies, haunted by death, may plumb the depths of the human experience,
but there is one character, in the canon of all his work,
which perhaps more than any other celebrates life.
One incredible comic creation, we could not leave out tonight.
The irrepressible Sir John Falstaff, a rogue, a thief,
and the close companion of the dissolute playboy Prince Hal.
From Henry IV Part One here is the Tavern Scene,
where Falstaff pretends to be the King and gives the prince
some fatherly advise.
There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of
and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch:
this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest:
for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink
but in tears, not in pleasure but in passion,
not in words only, but in woes also:
and yet there is a virtuous man
whom I have often noted in thy company,
that I know not his name.
What manner of man, an it like your majesty?
A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent;
of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye and a most noble carriage;
and his age, as I think, some fifty,
or by'r lady, inclining to three score;
and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff:
if that man should be lewdly given,
he deceiveth me; for, Harry,
I see virtue in that Falstaff.
him keep with, the rest banish.
Dost thou speak like a king?
Do thou stand for me, and I'll play my father.
Depose me?
If thou dost it half so gravely,
so majestically, both in words and matter,
hang me up by the heels
for a rabbit-sucker or a poulter's hare.
Well, here I am set.
And here I stand: the judge, my masters.
Now, Harry, whence come you?
My noble lord, from Eastcheap.
The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.
I' faith, my lord, they are false: nay,
I'll tickle ye for a young prince,
Swearest thou? Ungracious boy.
henceforth ne'er look on me.
Thou art violently carried away from grace:
there is a devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man;
a tun of man is thy companion.
Why dost thou converse with this trunk of humours,
that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies,
that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts,
that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly,
that reverend vice, that grey iniquity,
that father ruffian, that vanity in years?
Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it?
Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it?
Wherein cunning but in craft?
Wherein crafty but in villany?
Wherein villainous, but in all things?
Wherein worthy but in nothing?
I would your grace would take me with you:
whom means your grace?
That villanous abominable misleader of youth Falstaff!
that old white-bearded Satan.
My lord, the man I know.
I know thou dost.
But to say than I know more harm in him than in myself,
were to say more than I know.
That he is old, the more the pity;
his white hairs do witness it;
but that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster, that I utterly deny.
If sack and sugar be a fault, then heaven help the wicked!
If to be old and merry be a sin,
then many an old host that I know is damned:
if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved.
No, my good lord; banish Peto,
banish Bardolph, banish Poins:
but for sweet Jack Falstaff,
kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff,
valiant Jack Falstaff,
and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff
banish not him thy Harry's company.
Banish not him thy Harry's company!
banish plump Jack,
and banish all the world.
I do,
I will.
Our revels now are ended.
And these our actors, as I foretold you,
were all spirits
and Are melted into air, into thin air.
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision.
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces.
The solemn temples, the great globe itself.
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve.
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded.
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on
and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe. In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team,
From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic.
Not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house.
I am sent with broom before
To sweep the dust behind the door.
Through the house give glimmering light.
By the dead and drowsy fire,
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from brier;
And this ditty, after me, Sing and dance it trippingly
First, rehearse your song by rote,
To each word a warbling note.
Hand in hand with fairy grace
Will we sing and bless this place.
Now until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray.
To the best bride bed will we,
Which by us shall blessèd be.
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate.
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be.
With this field dew consecrate,
Every fairy take his gait.
And each several chamber bless
Through this palace with sweet peace.
And the owner of it blessed
Ever shall in safety rest.
Trip away. Make no stay.
Meet me all by break of day.
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended—
That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearnèd luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long.
Else the Puck a liar call.
So good night unto you all.
Give me your hands if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
If you want to discover more about Shakespeare and his works
then go to bbc.co.uk/Shakespeare
and follow the links to the open University.