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The Love Story of John and Sue by Bill Rattleknife
 
 

What if it be a poison which the Father

Subtly has ministered to have me dead,

Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured

Because he married me before to John?

I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not,

For he has still been tried a holy man.

I will not entertain so bad a ought.

How if, when I am laid into the tomb,

I wake before the time that John

Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point!

Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,

To whose foul mouth no health some air breathes in,

And there die strangled ere my John comes?

Or, if I live, is it not very like

The horrible conceit of death and night,

Together with the terror of the place

As in a vault, an ancient receptacle

Where for this many hundred years the bones

Of all my buried ancestors are packed;

Where bloody Quincy Sanchez, yet but green in earth,

Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,

At some hours in the night spirits resort

Alack, alack, is it not like that I,

So early waking what with loathsome smells,

And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,

That living mortals, hearing them, run mad

O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,

Environed with all these hideous fears,

And madly play with my forefathers' joints,

And pluck the mangled Quincy Sanchez from his shroud.,

And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone

As with a club dash out my desperate brains?

O, look! Me thinks I see my cousin's ghost

Seeking out John, that did spit his body

Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Quincy Sanchez, stay!

John, I come! this do I drink to you.

She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains.

 

 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
The Love Story of John and Sue by Bill Rattleknife continued
     
     
     
     
     
     
 
This web page was designed and built by © Chris Burgess Melbourne Australia. 4/2/2012-2016 156
 
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