101 lines
4.2 KiB
Plaintext
101 lines
4.2 KiB
Plaintext
1890
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IMPRESSIONS DE THEATRE
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by Oscar Wilde
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FABIEN DEI FRANCHI
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To My Friend Henry Irving
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The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,
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The dead that travel fast, the opening door,
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The murdered brother rising through the floor,
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The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid,
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And then the lonely duel in the glade,
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The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,
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Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er,-
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These things are well enough,- but thou wert made
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For more august creation! frenzied Lear
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Should at thy bidding wander on the heath
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With the shrill fool to mock him, Romeo
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For thee should lure his love, and desperate fear
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Pluck Richard's recreant dagger from its sheath-
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Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to blow!
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PHEDRE
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To Sarah Bernhardt
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How vain and dull this common world must seem
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To such a One as thou, who should'st have talked
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At Florence with Mirandola, or walked
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Through the cool olives of the Academe:
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Thou should'st have gathered reeds from a green stream
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For goat-foot Pan's shrill piping, and have played
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With the white girls in that Phaeacian glade
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Where grave Odysseus wakened from his dream.
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Ah! surely once some urn of Attic clay
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Held thy wan dust, and thou hast come again
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Back to this common world so dull and vain,
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For thou wert weary of the sunless day,
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The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
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The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.
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I. - PORTIA
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To Ellen Terry
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I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
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To peril all he had upon the lead,
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Or that proud Aragon bent low his head,
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Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold:
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For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
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Which is more golden than the golden sun,
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No woman Veronese looked upon
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Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
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Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
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The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned
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And would not let the laws of Venice yield
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Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew-
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O Portia! take my heart; it is thy due:
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I think I will not quarrel with bond.
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Written at the Lyceum Theatre
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II. - QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA
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To Ellen Terry
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In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
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She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
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Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain;
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The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
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War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry,
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To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
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Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
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Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
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O Hair of Gold! O crimson lips! O Face
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Made for the luring and the love of man!
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With thee I do forget the toil and stress.
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The loveless road that knows no resting place,
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Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,
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My freedom and my life republican!
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Written at the Lyceum Theatre
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III.
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CAMMA
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To Ellen Terry
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As one who poring on a Grecian urn
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Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
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God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
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And for their beauty's sake is loath to turn
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And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
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For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,
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When is the midmost shrine of Artemis
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I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?
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And yet- methinks I'd rather see thee play
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That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
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Made Emperors drunken,- come, great Egypt, shake
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Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,
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I am growing sick of unreal passions, make
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The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!
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Written at the Lyceum Theatre
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THE END
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