Honores: W. Shakespeare
Bitácora del Navegante. Honores.
"Tan imposible es avivar la lumbre con nieve, como apagar el fuego del amor con palabras."
William Shakespeare.
Cada vez me parece más necesario someter mi tiempo a la admiración de los grandes. Don Guillermo es uno de los Grandes. Porque buscó en palabras -instrumentos menores, en comparación con los sentimientos- los espacios donde expresar la tempestad de las pasiones, defectos y virtudes del hombre: el amor, la envidia, la codicia, la nobleza, la fidelidad...
Y porque los clásicos perduran, madurarán nuestros retoños a la sombra de sus versos.
Honores pues, y más honores...
"Ocurra lo que ocurra, aún en el día más borrascoso las horas y el tiempo pasan."
Alguna vez esta frase me permitió sobrevivir.
Para caer en la cuenta, una vez que el sol iluminaba el reloj, de que Tempus fugit*, y una borrasca interna, caprichosa, me oscurecía el alma.
*El tiempo huye, habitual en los relojes de Sol; evoca la frase de Publius Virgilius Maro -Georgica 3, 2, 84- fugit irreparabili tempus.
Advertencia: se discrimina al lector no ducho en lenguaje nativo del homenajeado: remedio mi afrenta señalando las escenas y obras transcriptas, e invitandolas a usar los buscadores. O si no:
Sonetos: 59 y 6
Hamlet: Acto I, EscenaV; Acto III Escena I.
Romeo y Julieta: Acto I, Escena V; Acto II, Escena II; Acto II, Escena VI;
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which labouring for invention bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child!
O! that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Wh'r we are mended, or wh'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O! sure I am the wits of former days,
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
LIX (Sonnet 59).
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
VI (Sonnet 6).
HAMLET.
And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
But come!
Here, as before, never, so help you mercy,
How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself
(As I perchance hereafter shall think meet
To put an antic disposition on),
That you, at such times seeing me, never shall,
With arms encumb'red thus, or this head-shake,
Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,
As 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could, an if we would,
'Or 'If we list to speak,' or 'There be, an if they might,
'Or such ambiguous giving out, to note
That you know aught of me- this is not to do,
So grace and mercy at your most need help you,
Swear.
GHOST.
[beneath]
Swear.
[They swear.]
Act I Scene V
...
HAMLET.
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 wish'd.
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,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
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 pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.-
Soft you now!The fair Ophelia!-Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb'red.
Act III Scene I
ROMEO.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
JULIET.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
ROMEO.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
JULIET.
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r.
ROMEO.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do!
They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
JULIET.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.
ROMEO.
Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd.
[Kisses her.]
JULIET.
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
ROMEO.
Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd!
Give me my sin again.
[Kisses her.]
JULIET.
You kiss by th' book.
Act I, Scene V
...
ROMEO.
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
JULIET.
'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 name 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 that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
ROMEO.
I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
JULIET.
What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night,
So stumblest on my counsel?
ROMEO.
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.
JULIET.
My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
ROMEO.
Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
JULIET.
How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
ROMEO.
With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do, that dares love attempt.
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
JULIET.
If they do see thee, they will murther thee.
ROMEO.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords!
Look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.
JULIET.
I would not for the world they saw thee here.
ROMEO.
I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;
And but thou love me, let them find me here.
My life were better ended by their hate
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
JULIET.
By whose direction found'st thou out this place?
ROMEO.
By love, that first did prompt me to enquire.
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
JULIET.
Thou knowest 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.
Fain would I dwell on form- fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay';
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries,
They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,
I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,
My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
ROMEO.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-
JULIET.
O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
ROMEO.
What shall I swear by?
JULIET.
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.
ROMEO.
If my heart's dear love-
JULIET.
Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night.
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, 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 flow'r when next we meet.
Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
ROMEO.
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
JULIET.
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
ROMEO.
Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
JULIET.
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.
ROMEO.
Would'st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?
JULIET.
But to be frank and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!
Act II, Scene II
...
ROMEO.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
JULIET.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament.
They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess
cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Act II, Scene VI
Extra: para descubrir...
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries,
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my years be past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.
But wherefore says my love that she is young?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore, I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.
Salúd!
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