The Dance of Death

As you can tell from my rather crude drawing, all of this is in extremely bad taste, so if you think you might be offended, please don't read on. And please don't think I'm being homophobic in the skit about the Abbot; heterosexuals get short shrift later on too! Misanthropic is probably the word :o)

 

Note my personification of death is female when the victim is male: an idea which I thought was reasonably original until I saw Cocteau's 'Orphee'...

 

For Hans Holbein's wonderful engravings of the Dance of Death, which inspired these skits, see:

www.godecookery.com/macabre/holdod/holdod.htm

 

... and follow the links.

 

THE DANCE OF DEATH

a bawdy masque

 

 

Giles Watson

 

based on the engravings of

Hans Holbein

 

2001

 

THE CEMETERY

 

Death 1:

Beat the drum with knucklebones,

Let your kneecaps rattle.

All are dead, no god atones,

Dead, like bloated cattle.

Beat the drum, the skin stretched tight,

With jawbone castanet:

These fools, who hoped for love and light -

Darkness rules them yet.

Throbbing as their hearts once throbbed,

Robbed of breath, as once they robbed.

Beat the drum, the bodhran flay;

Consign their corpses to decay.

 

Death 2:

Blow the pipe through fleshless lips,

Blow, as squalid humour drips

Between the slats of coffins cold,

And spent blood nourishes the mould.

Pucker up and blow the pipe

For bodies black, flyblown and ripe,

Green with phosphorescent glow:

Putrid piper, pout and blow.

 

Chorus:

Every king and every pope

Shall die by cancer, blade or rope,

Every merchant, pauper, slave

Shall lie grinning in the grave.

All the wise, the Reaper culls:

All shall soon have empty skulls.

Every fool shall bend the knee

And Death shall have the victory.

 

 

THE ABBOT

 

Death (aside):

 

I’m going to enjoy this one:

He’s portly, and he’s plump!

I’ll warrant that he got that way

By sitting on his rump!

His rump! It cannot come with him

He must leave it behind!

I’d let him keep it for a while,

But I feel disinclined…

 

(Death stealthily approaches the Abbot, who sits beneath a tree, gloating over a mitre and crozier.)

 

Abbot:

 

(The abbot is fat and imperturbable. Death creeps behind and listens to his pederastic musings, occasionally reaching out for his shoulder, and then thinking the better of it. At last, she can bear the temptation no longer, and she begins to interrupt.)

 

Ah! My pert and pretty monks!

I have made it my mission

To confess each one of you

In a new position.

 

Ah! My pert and pretty monks,

You each took my dictation,

Or else I had your bottoms stripped

All pink, for flagellation!

 

Ah! My pert and pretty monks,

And now I’m getting old,

I’ve left our abbey half in ruins

And purloined all the gold.

 

Ah! My pert and pretty monks!

Your tonsures shaven neatly –

If I’d had my way you’d have shed

Your habits quite completely.

 

Ah! My pert and pretty monks!

I’ll tuck each in his bed –

 

Death:

 

And Abbot, you will pay the price

Now that you are dead.

 

Abbot:

 

Who said that? My pretty monks?

They wouldn’t be so cheeky!

Perhaps it is the Bishop? No!

He wouldn’t dare be sneaky.

 

Someone spoke – or else I’m mad

I heard it – someone said –

 

Death:

 

Abbot you will pay the price

Now that you are dead.

 

(The Abbot starts, turns, and sees Death. He is terrified.)

 

Abbot:

 

Oh! My pert and pretty monks!

My strong monks, white and brawny!

Hurry now to rescue me,

For this one’s far too scrawny!

 

(Death snatches the mitre and crozier, and leers at him.)

 

Oh! My pert and pretty monks!

She’s vile! She stinks! She’s slobbery!

My mitre and my crozier!

Why! This is daylight robbery!

 

Death:

 

Robbery? You did it well –

But stole no maidenhead!

You’ll make a pretty whipping boy

For all the living dead!

You’ve spent your flesh on novices –

Confessed them of their sin,

But now, my dear, that you are mine

You soon shall wear my grin.

 

(Death plucks him from his seat and drags him away screaming.)

 

 

THE ASTROLOGER

 

(The Astrologer sits and contemplates the heavens, surrounded by paraphernalia. )

 

Astrologer:

 

Our ancestors were dumb, and blind,

For man is nothing without mind –

‘Tis intellect makes humankind.

 

Mind will conquer natural forces,

Mind will plot the stellar courses,

And trace all creatures to their sources.

 

The astrolabe maps out the sky

To show us where our fortunes lie –

Foretell the future, past defy.

 

The quadrant gives us time, and place

To benefit the human race

More soundly than the Church’s grace.

 

And other planets shall we find,

The influence of each opined,

For intellect makes humankind.

 

(Death enters, holding forth a skull. As she speaks, the Astrologer tries to ignore her, but at last is compelled to listen. He cries out and dies, and Death’s last words are chanted triumphantly over his body.)

 

Death:

 

And yet your intellect deserts

The cavern in your head.

There shall be no more need for brains

When humankind is dead.

Your eyes opaque like Mercury;

You’ll say goodbye to Venus –

No floozy in a cockle shell

Shall ever come between us.

‘Twill be too dark to contemplate

Conundrums from the stars –

There’ll be nought but rats, with twinkling

Eyes as red as Mars.

Forget the moons of Jupiter;

They’ll only prove it’s time

To leave the firmament behind,

Your quadrants caked with grime.

You’ll not discover Saturn’s rings;

Neptune’s beyond your scope;

Appeals to Copernicus

Will not appease the Pope,

Besides, my minions own him too,

No prayer can contain us;

Enlightenment will fail you when

My worms crawl up Uranus.

The planets all are in their place

With every constellation –

So what? This bleached and fleshless skull

Demands your contemplation.

Your auguries have blinded you;

You’re starstruck with deceit.

A man is but a skeleton

Hung with bits of meat.

 

(Death takes hold of the astrologer by the hair, lifting up his head. She holds the skull alongside it, laughs, and drags him away.)

 

 

THE BLIND OLD MAN

 

(The Blind Old Man stands on a street corner, hoping to cross the road.)

 

Old Man:

 

Oh, who will help a blind old man

To cross the busy street?

For all I hear is clattering hooves

And sounds of tramping feet.

Will someone take me to a tavern

For a pint of best?

And sit me down before the hearth

That I might take my rest?

 

(Death comes up and takes him by the hand.)

 

Death:

 

I am well known for courtesy

And helping men to rest –

No other has, for ageing souls

Less grudging interest.

Take my hand, good gentleman,

For I have heard your pleading,

And no one ever went astray

Surrendered to my leading.

 

(Death leads him forward.)

 

Old Man:

 

‘Tis kind of you, dear lady,

This debt I shall repay –

I could not wish for firmer hand

To lead me on my way.

And yet, your hand is cold, my dear,

Like icicles, and bony –

And since I last went to the inn

The way has grown more stony.

 

(Death says nothing, but leads him on.)

 

Old Man (reaching out and grasping something):

 

What? Is this the tavern door?

It is of iron wrought!

Where are all the babbling voices,

The company I sought?

 

Death:

 

Your senses are deceiving you –

For herein sits a host

A-drinking ale beside the hearth,

And all as warm as toast.

 

Old Man (reaching out again):

 

Why does the bar feel like a slab

Of lichen-covered stone?

And why do all the pewter mugs

Feel like chalky bone?

 

(Death says nothing, but begins to play.)

 

Old Man:

 

Ah – at least there’s music here,

And yet, the carpet’s rank,

And never did a fireside

Smell so dull and dank.

Lead me now, I’ll take a seat,

This night I’ll pass away…

 

(He takes another step forward, and plunges straight into an open grave.)

 

Death:

 

Well chosen words! You will indeed!

And there’s no bill to pay.

A lych-gate was the tavern door;

A gravestone was the bar –

Your resting place a yawning grave

Left carelessly ajar.

 

(She throws soil into the grave.)

 

Good night, old gentleman, goodnight!

My wriggling worms, sup well –

Thus rings the bell to summon him

To heaven or to hell.

 

 

THE IDIOT FOOL

 

Fool:

 

(The fool has a bladder bauble and a bulging codpiece.)

 

Bedlam’s reject; I’m a Fool,

This bladder bauble is my tool.

I have another ‘twixt my legs –

Give it a pat – see how it begs!

I’ve tangled hair,

My feet are bare,

I caper on without a care,

And I have no need to be fed

For poverty’s all in the head.

 

Death:

 

(Death spits at the bauble, and blows on the Fool’s codpiece. The Fool groans a lot.)

 

Heaven’s reject, I am Death;

I blow my pipes to steal your breath.

My grimy jaw will spit forth acid

To make your bauble limp and flaccid.

Hear how he sighs

When blown by flies,

For no mortal Death defies:

Think me not some vain phantasm;

I’ll clutch you ‘til your final spasm!

 

Fool:

 

(The Fool knocks Death to the ground with his bauble, but then proceeds to put Death back together again.)

 

Be brave now bauble: fight the foe

Though the plump bluebottles blow!

Wrap your blubber round his jaw;

Bring him clattering to the floor!

Death’s too late!

He’s foiled by fate!

Death shall disarticulate!

See! To prove that I am clever

I’ll now put Death back together.

 

Death:

 

(Death arises once more, and dances away with the Fool.)

 

O! Fated Fool! Inflated Fool!

To prick your pride would be too cruel!

Methinks that I shall take you whole

And have you mounted on a pole!

For ne’er did I

Compel to die

A finer fool! Fum foe and fie!

Bedlam’s reject, Death’s elect,

Though you’re dead, you’re still erect!

 

 

THE KING

 

(The King sits at his table, eating and drinking. His Food Taster hovers obsequiously nearby.)

 

King:

 

The Queen is dead

(Or so I’m told) –

She’ll not inherit

All my gold.

Besides, she criticised

Of late

My interest in

Affairs of State –

Though she knew nought

Of my success

With that comely

French princess,

Or how I filled

All Italy

With my bastard

Progeny.

 

These women!

How they prate and prattle

Of faithfulness!

Fat chance that’ll

Ever win

A king his fame.

These preaching prelates

Are to blame;

They think that

Chastity’s the thing

That makes a strong,

Successful king.

Fiddlesticks!

Though they be vexed,

A good king’s always

Highly sexed:

He likes a bare

And ample bust,

A horn of wine,

Good food, and lust.

 

Food Taster:

 

Alas! Alack! Though ‘tis no matter,

I cannot offer you the latter,

But ‘ere you caper off to bed,

A man’s libido must be fed.

Pray, wrap your gullet round some food –

I swear, ‘twill much improve your mood.

 

(The Food Taster pours gruel into a dish. A sideways glance reveals her to the audience as Death. She grimaces, and tips in a phial of poison, then makes a show of tasting the gruel. The King takes the food and gulps it noisily.)

 

Death:

 

Delightful, ‘tis! To watch you feed – O!

Stimulant to your libido!

I’ll sit and watch your tongue turn black,

Choked on aphrodisiac.

 

(The King looks up at Death, now fully revealed, in horror. He spits out the remaining food, and claws desperately at his throat. He reaches for a jug of water, but Death snatches it away from him, and pours it out before him. The King dies, and Death leads him away, singing.)

 

Death:

 

Spilt, like water, is your life –

‘Twas I who took your Queen and wife,

And now you’re mine, as all must be!

Nought satisfies like royalty.

 

 

THE KNIGHT

 

Death’s Chorus:

 

(Recited after every second verse sung by the Knight..)

 

Tarsus flanged with metatarsus,

O! What fun arranging ‘em!

Click! Clack! All my vertebrae

Are flanging with my cranium!

Chop me up! Dismember me!

Mortus est! But then,

A little orthopaedic skill

Brings Death to life again!

 

Knight:

 

(As he sings the first verse, Death enters, visored, and they fight.)

 

I am a bold, courageous knight;

I’m fierce against the foe!

I chop off heads, and arms and legs

And balls, with every blow!

 

I shall hew you limb from limb,

And I’ll show no remorse-o!

I’ll leave you wriggling on the ground,

A bloody, legless torso!

 

(He cuts Death’s legs off. Death falls, and sings her Chorus, putting herself back together.

She stands up again. They fight.)

 

Knight:

 

I am a bold, courageous knight;

My foe gives me the shits!

That is why I swing my sword

And chop the chap to bits!

 

Chop, plop! Chop, plop! You horrid foe!

I’ll have your brains embalmed!

Chop, plop! Chop, plop! Surrender, fool!

For thou hast been disarmed!

 

(He chops Death’s arms off. Death sings her Chorus, and puts herself to rights. They fight.)

 

Knight:

 

I am a bold, courageous knight;

I chop the enemy,

And watch his limbs fall left and right

Like branches from a tree.

 

Aha! You bounder! Strike your blow!

I fear it is belated!

I struck first, you craven foe,

And you’re decapitated!

 

(He chops off Death’s head. Death sings her Chorus, and puts herself to rights. They fight.

Death aims a blow between his legs.)

 

Knight:

 

I am a bold, courageous knight!

Take that! Foe beware!

Ouch! That hurt! Below the belt!

Foul play! That isn’t fair!

 

Ouch again! You bloody bounder!

My balls, O! How they bleed!

Death has thwarted me, O woe!

And I shall die knock-kneed!

 

(The Knight dies dramatically and bloodily. Death exults over him, and sings her final Chorus:)

 

Sinews severed, gametes gashed!

Death always wins the fight!

All armour has a chink somewhere,

You poor, unmanly knight!

Can-opened, tin-snipped and castrated!

All your joints are dislocated!

Unflanged thou art, thou luckless knave

Fit for nothing but the grave!

 

 

THE MISER

 

(The Miser sits at his table, counting money.)

 

Miser:

 

Ten gold pieces – I despise

Those wastrels in the street,

Frittering their wealth away;

I hear them from my seat.

 

Twenty pieces – how I loathe

Those spendthrifts, reckless, rash!

None of them is worth a penny

From my petty cash!

 

Thirty pieces – hear them laugh

As though their lives were funny!

But will they make such idle sport

When they run out of money?

 

Forty pieces – all their children

Rot their teeth on candy;

Men waste their cash on prostitutes

When they are feeling randy.

 

Fifty pieces – they build fires –

The very thought’s offensive –

Enlightened men prefer the cold,

For it is less expensive.

 

Sixty pieces – they have lanterns –

What a heinous scandal!

For gold will glitter just as well

When held up to a candle.

 

Seventy pieces – they drink ale

And work it off in dances,

But ale and dancing will do nought

To rescue their finances.

 

Eighty pieces – they think themselves

Unfettered, fancy-free,

But every last one is my slave

By dint of usury.

 

Ninety pieces – when they’re sick,

They need not look to me –

Let each one dig his own grave;

I’m done with charity.

 

(Death appears, and sweeps all the money off the table and into a basket. The Miser looks on in horror.)

 

Death:

 

A hundred pieces! You’ll admit

With your last dying groans

That once you had a hundred gold;

Now you’re a hundred bones.

 

Hear them revelling outside –

Who cares if they owe rent?

A thousand grains of sand per coin,

But all of yours are spent!

 

(Death takes up her hour-glass, grabs him viciously by the wrist, and hauls him away. The table tips over, and the few remaining coins clatter to the floor.)

 

 

THE NUN

 

(The Nun and her Lover sit side by side on a chair, looking nervous. The lover plays aimlessly with a lute.)

 

Lover:

 

Your habit’s very fetching, dear;

I like the way your wimple

Reveals a wisp of comely hair.

You have a sexy dimple –

I’d rather like to kiss it, dear,

With your kind permission…

 

(He makes as if to kiss her cheek, but she turns away, and then kneels on the floor.)

 

Nun:

 

But I must pray, my love, before

You lead me to perdition.

 

(She lights a candle, and places it on the altar before her.)

 

Oh, I am such a naughty nun

But perhaps it’s not too late

To say a penitential psalm

Before we fornicate.

Oh, life is far too difficult

Stuck inside a cloister;

That’s why, when bed-time comes around

My sheets are often moister

And more disordered than you might

Expect a nun’s to be…

 

Lover (getting up):

 

Ahem. Excuse me. Won’t be long.

I think I need to pee.

 

Nun (ignoring him and fiddling with rosaries):

 

Oh, I am such a naughty nun;

I really should be spanked

The way they do with naughty monks

When they’re found to have wanked.

 

(As her speech continues, Death comes in and sits on the chair, in the space vacated by her lover. He waits patiently for his chance.)

 

Trying to cover up the stains –

It’s such a cause for stress,

And trying to stop the springs from creaking’s

Hard, I must confess,

But I must not confess too loud –

That would cause a to-do…

 

Death:

 

Not half the confab it’ll cause

When I’ve had my way with you!

 

Nun:

 

Oh, don’t talk dirty, dear, not now!

I’m trying to be prayerful –

And sorely must I now repent

Of all the ways we’re careful:

The rhythm method’s not for me;

A sheath’s far more protective…

 

Death:

 

Fear not, dear! I know a method

Infinitely more effective.

 

(She stops praying, and turns to look at Death. He grins, holding up the hourglass. She screams horribly, and dies. Death idly gets up from the seat, snuffs the candle with his fingers, and animates her corpse. He takes up the lover’s lute, and begins to play. They dance away together.)

 

Death (departing):

 

Priests and bishops, clerks and canons:

All of these are fun,

But if a good time’s what you want,

There’s nothing like a nun!

 

 

THE OLD WOMAN

 

(An old woman totters along, stooped over her rosary. Her lips tremble, but make no noise. Every step is clearly a trial. Death dances up to her, garlanded with laurels.)

 

Death:

 

Your fingers are gnarled, like the roots of an oak,

And stained like old parchment, sullied with smoke,

And yet you persist with your rosary prayer,

Though no angel listens and no god will care.

The coffin your cradle, your shroud will enfold,

And I shall release you, through mildew and mould.

 

I’ll crawl in your ear and bite through to the brain,

And your brittle old bones will feed the gold grain,

I’ll snap every tendon, like mandolin strings,

And tune you anew at the coming of spring,

For once you were sprightly, but now you are old,

So I shall release you, through mildew and mould.

 

No hero can help you; none succour nor save,

But the cold wind will sprinkle the seeds on your grave,

The orbs of your eyes will be plied with white roots,

The blood in your veins grows verdant green shoots.

My arms may be fleshless, but still, they can hold

While I release you, through mildew and mould.

 

(Death holds her tenderly, and she collapses in his arms. He gently lays her out on the ground, and covers her with his garlands. The masque ends.)

 

 

THE PARSON

 

(A Parson walks solemnly towards the bed of a dying man. He holds the monstrance before him, ready to give the sufferer his last rites. Unrecognised by the Parson, Death capers ahead of him, making obscene gestures.)

 

Death (aside to audience):

 

When I’m on earth, ‘tis normally right

To give a mortal man a fright

By appearing in my glory,

Announcing grim ends to the story.

Today, however, I’ve a mind

To keep this poor old parson blind –

Indeed! Delightful possibility!

I shall maintain invisibility,

While, with monstrance held aloft,

My parson, with his brains gone soft,

Goes, the last rites to administer.

He’ll find that I’ve done something sinister

When he gets there, for his sheep

Is dead already. Ahead I’ll creep…

 

Parson:

 

Griswald was not good, ‘tis true –

He beat his mistress black and blue –

He always was a naughty one.

Kyrie elaison.

 

Death:

 

‘Tis true, dear parson! You should know,

For when his mistress came to blow

You, she told all Griswald did.

Then you paid her fifty quid.

 

Parson:

 

Griswald was a drunk, I fear,

Always revelling in beer.

But now his drinking days are gone.

Kyrie elaison.

 

Death:

 

‘Tis true that beer was his drink –

You kept the whisky, though, I think!

That’s why your visit’s so belated –

Because you were inebriated.

 

Parson:

 

Griswald often stole, they say,

At times when all good Christians pray.

He liked to purloin, pinch and con.

Kyrie elaison.

 

Death:

 

‘Tis true that Griswald was a thief –

To pious souls, ‘tis such a grief.

Maggots make his dead limbs writhe

While you pilfer half the tithe.

 

Parson:

 

Here I come, from heaven sent

With the holy Sacrament.

May he repent before I’m gone.

Kyrie elaison.

 

(The Parson arrives at the dead man’s bedside, perceives that he is too late, and crosses himself. He is about to bless the corpse with the monstrance when Death reveals herself. At Death’s last words, the Parson trembles with fear, drops the monstrance, and runs away. Death takes up the corpse and dances off with it.)

 

Death:

 

Corpus Christi – holy smoke-us!

Done with all this hocus-pocus!

“This is my body” – very true:

White as fish-flesh, eyelids blue!

I’ve deprived you of your function:

He’s too extreme for any unction.

Go home, and hold your monstrance steady –

I’ve done the sinner in already.

 

 

THE PHYSICIAN

 

Physician:

 

The humours of the body;

The mysteries of the mind –

These I research, I wrestle Death:

I nurse the deaf, the sick, the blind.

Bring me urine, steamy still –

I’ll analyse, concoct a pill;

Stool samples too – o’er them I pore,

Suppositories made to salve the sore,

Balms for binding wounds of war –

 

One war I fight, ‘ere I have breath –

I fight to conquer grisly Death.

 

(Death enters, grinning widely, and offers the physician a flask of urine. The physician takes it, and examines it, as if he is looking into a crystal ball.)

 

Ah! Goodness gracious! Let me see!

Indeed! A piping pot of pee!

Colour: yellow; Smell: oh dear!

An ailing specimen, I fear!

This pee augurs dire thrombosis!

Woe is me! A grim prognosis!

 

Death (laughing):

 

Grim indeed! I can affirm

No patient could be more infirm –

He couldn’t hold the flask quite steady;

I have him in my grip already.

 

(The physician puts the flask down hurriedly, and wipes his hands.)

 

Physician:

 

And who are you, to speak so boldly?

Why do your sockets stare so coldly?

I’ve seen your face somewhere before,

On surgeon’s slab, or field of war.

 

Death:

 

I am your foe, you worthless quack,

Thanks to me, you’ve lost the knack!

Oft-times you have assisted me,

With your slapdash surgery!

 

(Death grasps the physician by the throat, then relents.)

 

I have a mind to take you now,

Whilst you are young and tender,

But, alas! You must yet live,

My services to render.

He prospers well, the man who teaches:

Anaemia is cured by leeches,

Put cyanide in every pill,

And arsenic ends every ill.

 

To kill you now? That wouldn’t do –

For Death owes far too much to you!

I’ll guide your knife, but let you be,

If you will serve me faithfully.

 

(Death tips the urine on the physician’s head and departs, leaving the physician staring in bewilderment at the empty flask.)

 

 

THE POPE

 

I wanted him in his finery, tiara on his head,

Little thinking how my worms were longing to be fed.

 

I wanted him upon his throne, when emperors bowed the knee

To kiss his foot - now gentle Death has come to set him free.

 

I’ll send my demons on ahead, one with warrant sealed;

The other one will taste his blood before it has congealed.

 

I’ll lean upon my crutch and watch him, pompous and obscene

And I shall never let him go until his skin turns green.

 

My fleshless fingers seize his shoulder, shattering his hope:

I wanted him when but a babe; I’ll have him now he’s Pope.

 

 

THE PREACHER

 

Preacher:

Hear the Word of life and love,

Vouchsafed to all, gift from above.

Press on, flock, your crowns to win,

Turn from darkness and from sin.

My lips anointed by the One…

 

But what is this I look upon?

My gorge is filling up with gall -

He beckons, bids my sermon stall!

My tongue is swallowed, breath is fled,

Come Christ, who quickens all the…

 

Death:

Dead! Dead! Dead! Dead!

And worms shall twist your tongue instead!

For though your words were kindly meant

Death is far more eloquent!

The Word is truth? Why, mine is lies,

But crows shall still pick out your eyes.

You choke, and flail, and thresh about;

The glass inverted, sands run out.

You’ve cast your pearls before the swine:

You once were God’s, but now you’re mine!

 

 

THE PRINCE BISHOP

 

Fools in Chorus:

 

Hail! Our Prince Bishop! O how you resemble

A lion in his pride, for you never tremble!

Hail! Our Prince Bishop, don’t take us to task

For the rather grim nature of our little masque –

For we foretell the day when Death gives you greeting

And you lay down your crook, leave your little lambs bleating.

When Death comes a-piping, your mitre you’ll doff –

We have hopes, our dear patron, that day is far off.

 

(The Bishop, old and doddering, wanders about, leaning on his crook. Death approaches stealthily, and grasps him by the hand.)

 

Death:

 

Good evening, old codger,

You hoary Death-dodger –

My minions expect you;

I’ve come to collect you,

So shed all your livery

Ripe for delivery

Down in the shivery

Land of the shade.

Your flesh will be stinking,

Hear, Bishop, the clinking

Of the gravedigger’s spade.

 

Sir, are you afraid?

 

Bishop:

 

Welcome, co-traveller,

Life’s kind unraveller,

I fear not to meet you,

Nor seek to defeat you.

You knock at my door!

Should I quake to the core

At one funeral more?

My masque is all played.

All wrongs are amended,

The drama is ended

When I am unmade.

 

I am not afraid.

 

Death:

 

Are you failure or fool

To fear not a ghoul?

My stench will surround you,

My spectres will hound you.

They’ll purloin your gold

At my chilly threshold

All cloying with mould

Where devils deride.

And your gorge, it will rise,

At the buzzing of flies

That no flesh can abide.

 

Aren’t you terrified?

 

Bishop:

 

‘Tis my mission to bless,

Not to seek vain success,

And no demon nor ghoul

Can deride a true fool.

You will grant, it is well:

I have no sense of smell,

So lead me pell-mell

And I’ll dance by your side.

And as for the flies,

Let my flesh be their prize –

‘Tis no use now I’ve died.

 

I am not terrified.

 

Death:

 

You’re no fun! I feel cheated –

But I’ll not be defeated!

See my wolves! How they creep

To devour your sheep,

And you can do nought

My scheming to thwart,

Though your God be besought –

You are far from his ear.

For your crook, it lies broken

And there’s no other token

For those you hold dear.

 

Sir, do you not fear?

 

Bishop:

 

Kindly Death, soft thy sting,

Fun’s a relative thing –

Will wolves worrying my sheep

Disturb my deep sleep?

Nay! Providence rules you

As lifelessness cools you.

Each mourning soul fools you

By shedding a tear.

So, pray, lead the way;

I’ve no business to stay –

You’ve no reason to sneer,

 

For why should I fear?

 

(The Bishop offers Death the crook of his arm. She shrugs her shoulders despairingly, links arms with him, and reluctantly dances away with him.)

 

THE QUEEN

 

Queen:

 

Oh, how I long to be fulfilled, but I am left alone:

My husband’s mind’s on other things, since he took the throne.

Long perished is the amorous sport, which flourished when we wed:

I long for love; my sorry heart is empty as my bed.

Where’s my jester, full of cheer,

Belly full of frothing beer?

His coxcomb is my one delight;

His codpiece gets me through the night.

 

Death (disguised as a Fool):

 

Here I am, my mistress pretty –

Tell me, do you think me witty?

Your heart is empty as your bed?

Nay, ma’am, ‘tis empty as my head!

 

Queen:

 

Empty as your head, my dear?

Tease me not, but sit you here –

No hour with you was ever dull,

Yet you profess an empty skull.

 

Death:

 

My codpiece, ma’am, is empty too,

But much joy has it brought to you:

In airy dreams, behind my shroud,

You kindly call me well endowed.

 

And in my chest, there breathes no lung;

I jest, and yet possess no tongue,

But still my leering brings you cheer;

You giggle when I lick your ear.

 

Queen:

 

Oh, churlish Fool! Your humour’s black –

Be careful, or you’ll get the sack.

 

Death:

 

Your highness – careful what you say!

For I wear sackcloth every day.

 

(Death reveals herself, and grasps the Queen roughly by the wrist.)

 

Sackcloth, wrapping bones and dust:

And nought is left but lifeless lust.

 

Queen:

 

A lifeless lust, and humour vile –

And no lips to frame your smile!

A lustful Death? I heed your call –

‘Tis better than no lust at all.

 

I truly am your mistress now,

And you shall break my wedding vow:

Here, my charmer, take my ring,

For you have cuckolded the King.

 

 

THE SAILORS

 

Narrator:

 

Waves crash o’er the pitching deck,

The wind the fo’csle batters,

And rats are leaping o’er the side,

The sail’s in shreds and tatters.

The captain stands upon the bridge…

 

Captain:

 

This ship shall not go down

As long as I have breath to breathe

For I would sooner drown!

 

Narrator:

 

The captain, clinging to the helm

Will not desert his crew

Until his lungs are filled with brine;

Until his lips turn blue.

 

Captain:

 

Man the bilge-pumps, gallant crew,

And I shall hold her fast,

For no gale’s too much for her

While she still bears a mast.

 

Narrator (now revealed as Death):

 

On a little stick of Rowan

The captain’s faith is cast,

But I shall soon bring down his hope!

The crew shall watch aghast.

 

(Death clambers towards the mast.)

 

Death:

 

Food for urchins,

Food for eels;

Barnacles on broken keels.

Food for lobsters:

Dainty dish –

The candle is an angler fish.

Food for crabs

With jagged claws;

Food for sharks

With gaping jaws.

No bit of you shall rest in earth

Until your skull rolls in the surf.

 

(Death breaks down the mast; the Captain looks at her in horror and plunges into the sea.)

 

Death:

 

To drown is a poetic thing:

No human hand your lungs can wring.

They soak up water like a sponge.

Through icy depths you writhe, and plunge.

Your limbs will thresh about awhile

Until your lips begin to smile:

A stream of bubbles, then no more:

The darkness of the ocean floor.

 

(Death gloats over the sinking ship, and the masque ends.)

 

 

 

Done