Saturday, 26 November 2011

Shakey's deception

I'm cheating a bit today since what you read below is nothing Scottish at all. Hey! It's not even my writing but if you read on you'll see that deception between uncertain lovers is as old as the hills! My Scottish bit today is my little flower collection- all home snapped...if not all home grown.

Twelfth Night - William Shakespeare. (Probably my favourite play)

Enter Viola dressed as a boy

Duke: Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,

In the sweet pangs of it remember me;

For such as I am all true lovers are,

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else

Save in the constant image of the creature

That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

Viola: It gives a very echo to the seat

Where love is throned.

Duke: Thou dost speak masterly.

My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves.

Hath it not, boy?

Viola: A little, by your favour.

Duke: What kind of woman is’t?

Viola: Of your complexion.

Duke: She is not worth thee then. What years, i’faith?

Viola: About your years, my lord.

Duke: Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take

An elder than herself: so wears she to him,

So sways she level in her husband’s heart;

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,

Than women’s are.

Viola: I think it well, my lord.

Duke: Then let they love be younger than thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

For women are as roses, whose fair flow’r,

Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

Viola: And so they are; alas, that they are so.

To die, even when they to perfection grow.

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