Good Horatio! Summoned from my
very thoughts. What draws thee from
Augustine's cold embrace, to come thus
blinking into the sun like Euridyce
from some student's Hell?
A truant's disposition, my lord;
and, my studies finished, this fair day
did draw me hither from my dusty books.
So fair a day
As wanted only thy laughter,
sweet as the bells of summer Evensong.
My Prince is a poet.
Then my Horatio is a playwright, gifting other tongues
the silver cast of his own; or else a magician, to move
my rude speech to eloquence with the touch of his wand.
Nay, lord; your tongue wants no magic,
nor wants a suffered sea-change
as ladies slit a raven's tongue to hear its voice.
My lord is made of words, and builds him
silv'ry spires that soar to airy nothing, piercing
the very clouds with such grace as might beshame Olympus,
and porters far below to bar the door 'gainst philosophers.
A touch, a touch! Pious Aristotle might in vain
bespeak the hospitality of my tower, but no door
will I bar 'gainst loyal Horatio, who is made of truth.
And wouldst thou have me climb thy tower,
good my Lord, and tend upon the hours and
times of thy desire with such sober mien
as might befit a nunnery?
Nay, not so; for I love thy laughter better,
and thou wouldst be ill-suited to a wimple.
But couch we a while above the silent clouds
and leave philosophers and kings the cold Earth,
forget our parts upon that stage and be no more
than Hamlet and Horatio.
As fine a dream, O Prince, as any saint's vision.
