Life — April 20, 1916 — page 30: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘LTP E* Children of the Bard APRIL 23, 1564. 1616. 1916 CENE: A bit of lawn in Central Park sur- rounded by trees. The rays of the waning moon filter through the small, new leaves. Time: Between April 23, 1916. Enter Puck midnight and dawn, Puck. While now the foxy lawyer dreams of fees, The Wall Street man of low finance, And revelers eat and drink at case, While others to queer rag-time dance; Now half-waked mothers still their crying babes, And fathers snore in selfish sleep, While countless Ikes and Sols and Abes Are riding home in taxis cheap; While coppers steal a doorway nap, And milk carts just begin to clatter, When yowling cats have ceased to scrap, And all the town is free from chatter, We fairy folk, and others in our train, Are gathered here in precincts still, All children of that mighty brain That lived and died with Stratford's Will. Soft music sounds, and through the trees appear shadowy forms that take shape as they speak. First Shade. will find The questions and philosophy that stirred our master’s mind. Two Shades (embraced in cach other's arms), And we, although for our great love we died too soon, Through him shall live so long as lovers love the moon. Another Shade. And 1 his knowledge show of woman's love to flirt and trick, But merry and witty, as will witness Benedick. Another. So long as love and jealousy continue of twin birth, Warring in passionate but suspicious hearts, My name and tragic tale in all the earth Shall live immortal through the master’s arts. Another, By taming haughty Kate, the master made me show A thing or two the husband of to-day should know. Another. Had 1 loved Clegpatra less and duty more, Had I sought war, and dalliance foreswore, Then had the master sent mine down to fame, Coupled only with great Caesar's name. In me, from Denmark's gloomy palace, you Another, Malformed, ambitious, faithless, but immortal By the master’s password through fame’s portal. Another. To don boy’s clothes of course was shocking, To show more than girl should of her stocking, Yet the poet’s wit hath made the world agree I was not guilty of immodesty. Another. My cruel greed, my avarice, my hated race, In his immortal roll give me my place. Another, I'll live forever in my human peacock pose, Vain, cross-gartered in my brain and on my hose. Another, The world can re’er forgive the assassin’s trade, Yet to have the world judge me I am not afraid Since he my honesty hath patent made. A Shade with Long White Beard and Flowing Locks. Old age finds few that sympathize, But he hath made me pitiful in all men’s eyes. A Stout Shade. In fun he made me fat, and fond of dames and sack, In his great family the one of broadest back. A Shade with a Candle, A murdress yet a wife, sharing with her spouse His ruthless ambition to advance his house. A Shade in Armor. Against might and power to storm the breach, Bravery’s the virtue he hath made me teach. A Band of Shades with Crowns (in unison). historic kings, now turned to dust, Whose records as he wrote them we find just. All the Remaining Shades. We are the other, countless, less-known folk, Each drawn to life in speech and look and limb, To win a tear or point a joke; Whate'er we are, we owe to him. We are the Puck enters on a Moonbeam Now sounds the early note Of the bird who wakes the other birds; Its echo sounds from trees remote While growing blue the horizon girds. Old folks begin to stir in bed, And sleeping maids rejoice in dreams Of loving swains they hope to wed— All signs of coming dawn, meseems. So now, sweet friends, the hour has come When we must part, to meet again As oft as mortals gain pleasure from The lines writ by our master’s pen. We, proud children of his fantasy, Three hundred years and more have played, And generations yet unborn shall see Us playing still to nations yet unmade. So glide we now on our eternal way, Undying creatures, born from Shakespeare's brain, Some young, some old, some grave, some gay, But still his children we shall e’er remain, Now join we in our vernal song, Whose virtue is it is not long. comicbooks.com