Bardisms (36 page)

How to use it:

This speech is about a woman whose work or great achievements have to do with her powers of speech. Introduce your remarks by citing some of the special and stirring things your honoree has said, then move into this Bardism to explain how inspirational you find her. However, if you need to talk about a gal whose gifts are not merely of gab, worry not: some minor tweaks to the second half of line 2 will save the day. Again, begin by describing what it is that’s so unique and motivating about this woman—her deeds, her work, her example, say—and then point out, with some gently rewritten Shakespeare, that if a coward
saw
her
do these deeds
, or
make this work
, or
reach this goal
, or
set this standard
, he’d become magnanimous and invincible.

Be sure to draw the contrast between the craven
coward
of line 2 and the
magnanimity
he’d gain from your fine female friend’s inspirational ministrations.

SHAKESPEARE ON HEALTH AND MEDICINE

Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-neglecting.

—D
AUPHIN
,
Henry V
, 2.4.74–75

No doubt there are a host of entirely normal physiological changes associated with growing old that result in the Sixth Age’s shrunken shank and piping, whistling voice. On the other hand, these traits may also be symptomatic of ailments that can beset the pantaloon in the December of his years. Illness and infirmity, so dreadfully prominent as life winds down, and an unwelcome intrusion even on life’s most vital years, are widely considered in the Bard’s works. There are characters who catch cold, who suffer accidents and injuries, who speechify on their deathbeds (folklore held that the gift of prophecy was given to the dying in the moments before they expire), even, in
Henry IV, Part II
, a character who feigns illness in order to get out of doing something he doesn’t want to do (that’s Northumberland, who calls in sick to the Battle of Shrewsbury, thus hanging his own son out to dry—and die—at enemy hands). There is also a smattering of physicians and surgeons in the canon, very few of whom actually manage to cure anyone of anything, perhaps dramatizing Shakespeare’s core belief that the physical ravages of old age no more yield to human intervention than do any of time’s other savagely destructive powers.

The Bardisms below are Shakespeare for Occasions of Aches, Pains, and Visits to the Doc.

A TOOTHACHE IS SERIOUS BUSINESS

Compared with the miraculous practice of today’s doctors, medicine in Shakespeare’s period, known as physic, was just this side of voodoo. But Renaissance doctoring, however primitive, was like a visit to the Mayo Clinic compared to Renaissance dentistry, a practice about which the adjective
barbaric
is a compliment. Although by the late sixteenth century dentists had begun to professionalize themselves through standard training and practices, in most parts of England it remained nearly impossible to receive anything resembling decent dental care. The medieval approach to mouth care continued: dentistry was handled by barbers, who maintained alongside their combs and scissors a veritable torture chamber of hammers, pliers, levers, saws, and other blunt instruments for cutting, drilling, and extracting teeth. Pain-free dentistry? Hardly. But despite the agony of getting dental care, patients sought it out on doctors’ orders: physicians often prescribed tooth extraction as a cure for a whole host of diseases that we know today to be entirely unrelated to the mouth.

People often ask me: “If time travel existed, would you like to go back to Shakespeare’s London?” My answer: “Only if I was sure I didn’t have any cavities.”

There was never yet philosopher

That could endure the toothache patiently,

However they have writ they style of gods,

And made a pish at chance and sufferance.

—L
EONATO
,
Much Ado About Nothing
, 5.1.35–38

In other words:

Not even the most thoughtful and analytical person can put up with the agony of a toothache, even if their writings have transcended human concerns, and even if they’ve blown a raspberry at bad luck and suffering.

How to say it:

Feel free to interpret the toothache in this passage metaphorically. Leonato’s observation works in the context of any inconvenience that’s grown so annoying that it can no longer be ignored.

End at line 2 if you’d like. Lines 3 and 4, though, are well suited to the stoic in your life who doesn’t usually complain about anything, but whose impacted wisdom teeth have him climbing walls and cursing like a stevedore.

Use the Paper Trick on this passage and you’ll find that it unfolds elegantly, line by line by line. Observe the phrasing break at the end of line 3, and you’ll discover how absolutely perfect is Leonato’s choice of the word
pish
to express the philosopher’s disdain for every misery, a cavalier dismissal that’s useless in the face of root canal.

MY BODY MAY BE SHOT, BUT MY MIND’S OKAY

Here’s some Shakespeare on the Occasion of Heroically Punching Your Time Card Even Though You Really Should Be Home in Bed. It may not fully satisfy the guy in the next cubicle who’s slathered himself in Purell in order not to catch your flu, but it should at least keep him quiet for a moment.

I am not very sick, / Since I can reason of it.

—I
MOGEN
,
Cymbeline
, 4.2.13–14

In other words:

I’m obviously not seriously ill, since I’m still okay enough to talk about my condition.

LET’S FURTHER THINK ON THIS…

When movie star Charlton Heston announced in 2002 that he’d be leaving public life because he’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, it seemed entirely fitting that he ended his statement by quoting Prospero from
The Tempest
. “Our revels now are ended,” the actor said, then skipped a few lines to the really meaty bit: “We are such stuff / As dreams are made on and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep.” Heston chose exactly the right character (an elderly artist), at precisely the right moment in his life (contemplating his imminent death), and from just the right play (a work very much concerned with endings and the emotional and psychological preparations they require). We were moved by his plight, stirred by his words, and appreciative of his efforts to locate Shakespearean rhetoric appropriate to the occasion.

NATURAL CURES ARE THE WAY TO GO

What we’d today call self-help books constituted a small literary subgenre in the English Renaissance, and home remedy manuals filled a significant niche within the category. Sufferers of everything from headache to ingrown toenail could consult various early modern versions of the
Physician’s Desk Reference
and learn how to prepare concoctions, boluses, and poultices to treat their pains. All the necessary ingredients were as close as the nearest garden: Shakespeare’s pharmacopoeia was Mother Nature. Friar Laurence, the homeopathic healer, clergyman, and (unfortunately idiosyncratic) relationship counselor in
Romeo and Juliet
, makes the Bard’s most sustained comments on the powers of natural medicine when he first appears in the play:

O mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities,

For naught so vile that on the earth doth live

But to the earth some special good doth give.

—F
RIAR
L
AURENCE
,
Romeo and Juliet
, 2.2.15–16

In other words:

Let me tell you, there’s goodness and effectiveness in plants, herbs, rocks, and their inherent properties, and it’s strong. Even the worst living things on earth have some good to contribute.

How to say it: