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Literary Sillies and Miscellanies Trends



AMARANTUS: More quaintly than Hermes, like thou seahorse-whelp minister to perdition like Persephone husbands her Hades; well-advised in the sudden plump of souls; as a rift of cloud gapes its jaws, so do crocs for fish, to let heaven unsuspect in, that, swill’d to the bouk, his eye straight quotes a filigree of foul matter, viny filth, which soon, turbulent as coloquintida, his bowels churn to a present flushing, and thus clears his stomach as lade his heart with ores of woe; while brighter grows the cloud that swallow’d bright heaven; – turning each gull in the fire-sighing forge of his low! – Describ’st the love of thy brother by such bitter jest?

FOOL: Sire, free right clean of perdition like the Mandragora, I lack to fear! Smith Hephaestus as he smiths, and Hades urge him on, I slip the gin, as like your handmaiden is to fleet you fresh milk – till both, sedating, sick and die in the scotch! Mark me you! – his eye, than porbeagles more aggressive, he sends his post to watch like one in a fast, that no mischief falls by but he marks it for his lord’s, and straightway clepes report of the instance; his nose, lonesome than is a scull, stands shot from his face like to a star from forth its inky bowl, or a jutty, or the fore piece of a cap, as we call it, a visor, or a promontory, jutting head-forward down, as should spy to summate the sparse generation of his chin; his mouth a whirlblast to chugalug my mother’s fat labour all in one throat, say, all disannul’d and down’d to his vast-repositing paunch like an Antlantis in the flood! – and then his cheeks a parted sea, fulsome almost to a breaking each side, and both evidence his crook! – the whorewhelp! This heraldry I onlook, which gives him for my brother; guilty as a fitch toil’d in a gin – as we hay conies – agnate to me as like a bib is a cod; or is to drake, mole, beaver, your platypus kin; whimberry your bilberry; the cowberry the lingonberry; our partridgeberry our lowbush cranberry; foxberry red whortleberry; till we comparison bury with the berry – o’erkinned quite!

AMARANTUS: Thou’rt sure, coystrel, to be hang’d of thine own tree as thou keep’st this fruit thou show’st! – engenderer of thine own pluck-down!

FOOL: That I go of will is wile to turn going come subject to his own power, where, desiring now we stay more while for life, he cannot dam our breaking and advancement graveward; for how many trancers go who not groan at the mouth of their trance, and curse the old entrance that new regurgitate them? To the palate of all life is content sauce, and death’s sweetener!

AMARANTUS: Marry, that is chief watchword of your quill, and cries me remembrance now; not one day is not escap’d this year last but saw thy Muse lain uppent, which adjudicatrix serv’d you twixt license and continency; both to mesh to some competency; that fiery-wing’d Invention, taking no joy of half room to see heaven, is clept to the freezy earth, like headstrong Menoetius thunderbolted to Tartarus down! I take it thou art short?

FOOL: Wis, liege, I have gentled supply this time by her tributary, to line my creel with numbers where they flow’d in, but, tell thee what, trout I day and day as fantastical husbandmen misthink to sheave up four pecks of wind to granarying; like vain like perpetual! But what of that? I am many volumes up to the shortest eye betimes! The high, let pot me by the scrolls; the low, in the streets; and my foes, by my friends, particular heirs to the fee-simple of our life from the grantor, himself of the signiory retainer; – that seek out my secrets, to do them fere vantage!

AMARANTUS: Aptly I loft myself up toward heaven aiming grace, being but steep’d too low in mortality, but yet return me beneath to find it down upon the ground, far above my compass and plucking down! Such contraries do accord in immortal things, as in death, where we find Principality’s term billhook’d, lain in fur, and up ne’er at good, but Beggary’s weeping prorogated; or glory unquenching, as to hoodwink death; or in love, of more blaze than glory; that, freely give they themselves unask’d, but as soon ask’d, as freely skip our hasp – slithering like water-elves!

FOOL: Good faith, ‘tis like to be so, were it more than we like it to be! But that that little the Great enact, the Little call great; that great the Great, the Great little bedeem; that, great and little, like pug and millet grain’d together, not one is pick’d but the other removes with it; and great is not what little is, nor little what great; that then altogether nothing great nor little!

AMARANTUS: Heedless like fingerlings new broken in

The open sea, still unsparing of fin;

I have longings to tread more darker path

Than e’er Abaddon, whom more yet lathes, hath;

To find some light, brighter than’s eye of day;

Whereby ourself may see to raise more low, say,

Than any blood once wagg’d, or yet will seethe;

Else, denied, forget like spirits drunk of lethe!

Be though the snaky way venom’d with fangs and claws,

Expedition advances head, knowing no laws;

Till on the trespass doth lose feet, like the martlet:

Yet pitchy wing grow, and vault the envious let!

He’s far misled that think me with him a-worldling,

Who form’d of aery dreams, am past the world’s cupping!

FOOL: Supervenient! Thou, being bound for it, as Pandora’s parcel bound for the world’s infection, unloos’d most opportunately, art bound to find it, though the tent change ground betime, and leave thee apace; creep as you creep, you’ll ferret out it yet, and in good time too! – for thou’rt more skill’d of routes than esatlantes! Thou pine’st like a grandam for her goodman forty winters out, sweet liege!


FOOL:            I catch a mankind, and as lief hie to hanging

As come down with it, and suffer the foul changing;

For in all of medicinery plagues no ail viler;

More venomous than’s the asp, than the Nile Niler!

No herb’ll medicine it but sweet leave of a hanging,

Which cure to pease the convulsion, outcepts all sweeting!

AMARANTUS: Scollop! Thou hardhead aberrant! Hang’st thou up, I get not the hang of it, and stand’st the ground!

FOOL: Roundly so, I hold my ground by the foot, and take the ground of any he that beard me at my own; for, sooth, I am not here, but air; a dull nothing!

AMARANTUS: Indeed so! Thou’rt the first e’er I heard rumour on his death when it be post, who hangs him up till all deciduous in him drops to the ground, and new eyes the heaven for new green, as do barn swallows perch the night in intermission; thou live or I am past! – and nothing quite, withal all my expense in this barter!

FOOL: As thou my all in haul the better, sire, looting of thy precious time, and stashing mine own! I am nothing, being nobody!

AMARANTUS: Being nothing, art thou nobody!

FOOL:            Here is goodfellow Nobody, here stood Everything;

On one hand both; tell this me, which is greater king?

AMARANTUS: The latter, infinite at riches, sirrah, which do ambitious men covet; whiles Nobody’s the slow wretch kibes the pacy world by the heel fast, till come a-mount his top of hill, he’ll tout him the use of an ulcer, take his foothold, and fall down him again to flats, and come at head! And there your close!

FOOL: False! Perdited! Thou catch’st the flame for thy dark ignorance, and are like to see ne’er but with blubbering, nor feed of aught but breeze at the furnace! The former is mightier king of the two every day they come by, clinching breasts or swords clinking!

AMARANTUS: Your reason, scapelaw!

FOOL: Why, he not born but a minute before knows the word old as harlotry: Nobody hath Everything! And say you, shall he be not lord and king of that he doth possess, liege, as you sole lord of your ignorance?

AMARANTUS: Scoundrel! The women at wool snatch the snath and scythe thy pride off, or shear but tears for these ruderies, villain!

FOOL: Soft, master, there is a ass more dear comes at the hind with an infinite bulk of spleen! I see no ‘though’ but you are tann’d sorel under his heat of bile, spread out and pour’d forth!

Enter Mentor, Amarantus’ nephew.

(Referring to Mentor) I know him straight like our yokefellow in a looking-glass; or as hedonist smells out a stoic! Here was a lover dock’d between oath and oath like a false-giving perjure, to lose tail by one, the other save his head!

AMARANTUS: Evidence this claim, appeal I, yaffler!

FOOL: Why, that’s patent! One oath swears him a love-swain, wherefore the wench snatch his tail, or freehold the fee-tail of all his chamber of man; the other for no one, whereby perjures him, to loin his head from the maiden, that no maidenhead lurks within walls but in vain that it prorupts forth of cloth, and wish it liefer make battery, as make itself away!

AMARANTUS: This is very outlawish testimony will run the evidencer, by the article, just in the way between fair law and courtial impatience! The longer speech, longer sentence!

FOOL: It is a case feated to impeach the deemster, and bevel him within the eye and blank of his own doom! Shoot the shaft, and the sober fool falls himself! Thus oft is man, articled and impleaded before the bench of his own mercy, to braid himself deeper with the instrument of his quiddits, in trouble deeper stepp’d by each proceeding, and the quidditor ascriptitious prove sorry appellant for twice so steep the conveyance; that he’s fee’d by this much minas in silver that he wins back in health; fool by the law he sign no waiver to be acquit of the rate, or cut the forfeit back many talents! That were salutary business in the ledgers, he practis’d compter in our eye; elsewise the law lapidates him the books, quidditatives of his penance!

MENTOR: I had her a time, like fee own’d in dream, waking no such wealth;

In such places joy lives, as in a wisp, vapour;

A dewdrop, bubble, now afire, now no more:

So she, then flits the grasp, as wraiths creep ‘long in stealth!

Laying eyes on her once, did I all my self lose,

And straight buried gemworth ambition in the ooze;

Since more than my self she’s worth, or all earth

Could yield, or all jewels intrust’d in her girth!

Wherefore losing her, lose self and desire;

Which rare wealth lost remembering, drinks me up drier!

Ho! The wench’s dead, with her my dreams all in accord

Buried in one sleep like peascods womb’d in a pod!

Were some trophy stood, or chaplet wreathen which crown dreams;

I sleeping could score it, that eche wishful rims!

FOOL: The joy of her was too great, which instance you some too great unclewing toward; since love of nature proves the more strange than mandrake root, which stealthily infiltrate the blood, as might our evil-bowel’d gelding Troy, to make sleep the landlord, and effect thenceforward what he list, falser than a smiling bridegroom; or hath in blood more roguery than Eris, dropp’d of an instant deadly tree, her mother ebon Nyx, spawn’d of Chaos; whose one apple-fruit spall a million hearts resoluted together, and germinate a fresh war never a-withering out! Therefore keep your stars, creep up some altar of Tyche’s, leave presents for thy welfare, saved and preserv’d from the perditious bale, thou wert deliver’d from the trot! For well I take him the man tied to the knot well-sauced meat serv’d in before a slobbering Ruin, like emperil’d with the pink of the shoal – as minnow serv’d trout!

AMARANTUS: (Referring to the fool) His wit gathers up to a top, and peaks at a no-point, like a bodkin’s head; that, high as he will to go, still copes beneath dull lofts, nor cannot, piercing like scales of quillwort, show his head above it, as archerfish forth of brackish water to shoot down insect!

FOOL: A humour unwelcome to taste like gooseberry; sooth! or sweet glozes serv’d King Nestor with never just the stomach; and the fool forfeit his head for no stomach!

AMARANTUS: (To Mentor) Notch the seasons, boy, with sharp staring! Catch rain, catch light, at eye both catch, nothing ever to heart! Thus are wounds warish’d or ‘scaped!

FOOL: Think it august almsdeed to ourself we oxalis three march hence to find tender canopying gaillardias to our heads, for there shows a December his tail that, aberrer than a dragon’s, may autumn all things pretty, severing them from their stalks, which themselves, no narrow-wing’d auks, cannot resist, nor fly from! – since plough we up seasons. And so hence, sweet gentles both with me!



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About the author

Sydney Chesterfield

Poet, Playwright, Philosopher, Humanitarian, mad lover of children and unflinching fighter for equality on all grounds viz. Women's rights, child rights, sine die.

Twitter: @syd_field