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Arthur Symons - The Fool Of The World: A Morality
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To AMY SAWYER 

THE MAN. 			THE WORM. 
DEATH, as the Fool,		 YOUTH. 
THE SPADE. 			MIDDLE AGE. 
THE COFFIN. 			OLD AGE. 

The Scene represents a dark wood, in which a Man, dressed as a Pilgrim, is discovered standing. 


THE MAN 
This is the wood, and, my heart saith, 
This is the sanctuary of Death. 
I am afraid: am I not here 
To face and question with my fear? 
Yet, if I ask and Death reply. 
How should I bear it? how should I 
Live, knowing what it is to die? 

This life is evil, and must end: 
But what if Death should be our friend? 
This life is full of weariness 
And ignorance and blind distress. 
And it may be that when man dies 
Death, being altogether wise, 
Shall take the darkness from his eyes, 

But no, he cannot be our friend: 
This life is evil, and must end 
In evil; every man that lives 
Lives but the limit that Death gives. 
And Death has seen all beauty pass, 
And glory, as the flower of grass, 
And nothing is that ever was. 

This life is evil, and must end, 
Alas I and who shall be our friend? 
Though we have seen him through our fears 
An old lean crooked man of years, 
Death`s wisdom must in heaven make dim 
The brightest of the Seraphim: 
I will kneel down and pray to him. 
	[He kneels down. DEATH enters as a woman
	Masked, with a fool`s cap on which are seven 
	Bells, and a staff of seven bells in her hand.] 

DEATH 
Come hither, all ye that draw breath: 
What would ye of me? I am Death. 

THE MAN [rising to his feet]. 
O foolish woman, capped and masked, 
Not for your cap and bells I asked: 
They make a loud and merry din, 
But I was calling Wisdom in. 

DEATH [shaking the bells]. 
I am the Fool of the World. Come follow; 
As your hopes are my bells hollow, 
As my cap are your thoughts vain; 
I come and go and come again. 
Singing and dancing, and with mirth 
Lead the dance of fools on earth 
To the tune of my seven bells: 
Whither? none returning tells; 
The seven bells sing to them: how soon 
They fall asleep to the cradle-tune! 

THE MAN 
What is this folly of lewd breath? 
Who shall be wise if this be Death? 

DEATH  [raising the staff of bells solemnly, like a sceptre] 
I, of all proud frail mortal things, 
Choose for my own the greatest kings. 
The bravest captains, the most wise 
Doctors, the craftiest lords of lies, 
The fairest women; and all these 
Praise me, and kneel about my knees; 
The glories of the world bow down 
When the bells chatter in my crown. 
I am the Fool of the World, I must 
Lead the fools` dance home to the dust. 
 
THE MAN 
If this be Death indeed that saith 
Brave sayings in the name of Death, 
O Death, take off from us the dread 
Of the three makers of our bed:
The Spade, the Coffin Strait and low, 
The Worm that is our bed-fellow. 

DEATH 
O men that know me not, afraid 
Of Worm, of Coffin, and of Spade, 
I will call in my labourers 
That they may speak against your fears. 
	[DEATH beckons with her Staff of bells, and one 
	enters, in mean attire, bearing a spade.]

THE MAN 
Oh what is this that comes arrayed 
In dusty clothes, and holds a spade? 

THE SPADE 
I am the builder of the house 
Which Death to every guest allows; 
I dig the sure foundations deep 
In the stony soil of sleep; 
There is no noise about the doors, 
No noise upon the ancient floors, 
Only the graveworm`s dusty feet 
Walk softly to and fro in it. 
	[DEATH beckons with her staff of bells, and one 
	enters, in black clothes, bearing a coffin.]
 
THE MAN 
O who is this that bears, alack, 
So Strait a bed upon his back? 
THE COFFIN 
I am the only bed that gives 
Sleep without dreams to all that lives, 
An unawakening sleep to all; 
Sleep sweetly till you hear the call: 
It may be one shall bid you rise, 
At cock-crow, with untroubled eyes. 
	[DEATH beckons with her staff of bells, and one 
	enters, hooded and cloaked in ruff-coloured clothes.]
 
THE MAN 
What is this thing of fearful form 
That wears the livery of the worm? 

THE WORM 
I am the Worm: have I not fed 
Sweetly upon the bones of the dead, 
Sweetly on bones that have been kings? 
No tenderer is the flesh that clings 
About their bones than this that may 
Wrap up a beggar turned to clay. 
Beauty is the one morsel worth 
The biting of the worm of earth; 
Surely the flesh of Helen made 
A most sweet morsel: therein stayed 
The sap that moved her flesh to fault, 
For it was seasoned with pure salt. 

THE MAN 
Though sexton Spade and Coffin bed 
Be gentle to us, being dead.
Though, like dead Helen, in the ground 
We with our bedfellow sleep sound, 
O Death, we know not if these know 
The whole long way we have to go.
 
DEATH 
O men that know me not, and dread 
Sleep, and the dreams about the bed, 
I will call in my guests, that wait 
To speak with you, without the gate: 
Surely of them ye shall hear truth. 
	[DEATH shakes her bells and beckons to three 
	figures, differently dressed, of whom one is 
	one of middle age, and one old.]
 
YOUTH 
"We three, the guests of Death, are Youth, 
And Middle Age, and Age. Bow down, 
Old men, before a zany`s crown, 
For ye have lived; but I, being young, 
And scarce a shadow`s length among 
The morning roses of the May, 
Met this false wanton on the way 
And flew to her accursed lure; 
Now, for all pleasure, I endure 
Earth, and the blind and stagnant night, 
And, for mot pain, remember light, 

DEATH [lowering the staff of bells]
What is this spirit of quenchless flame 
That cries against my mercy`s name? 
[To MIDDLE AGE.] Speak, and speak truth. 

MIDDLE AGE 
The noon was high, 
And the sun Steadfast in the sky, 
And all the day`s strong middle heat 
Weighed on me, and I felt my feet 
A little weary of the crowd, 
When the seven bells sang aloud; 
My heart was full of peace, my life 
Was evil, and a place of Strife; 
I followed, I am here, I had 
Neither a sorry heart nor glad. 

DEATH 
Shall but one spirit, soothed with dust, 
Rise, and remember to be just? 
Speak, and speak truth, spirit of Age. 

AGE 
I tottered on my pilgrimage, 
My dragging feet could hardly tread 
The steep and stony road that led 
By such hard ways to some dim end 
I had forgotten, when this friend 
Crooked a kind arm under my arm, 
And I was there; and I was warm, 
And young, and no more scant of breath: 
I praise the mercy of good Death. 

THE MAN 
O Death, these voices, though they speak, 
What can they tell us that we seek? 
Are not these voices mortal still 
That utter the unforgotten will 
Of mortal flesh, and not yet have 
Found out the wisdom of the grave? 
These, though the body they forget, 
Speak with the body`s voices yet 
A mortal speech; but who of ye 
Shall speak out of eternity? 
Only Death knows, only Death can 
Speak the whole truth of death to man. 
O Death, Death kind and piteous, 
Have pity, and tell the truth to us! 

DEATH [rising] 
Shall the seven bells of folly know 
Pity, that lead me where I go? 
[She throws down the staff of bells. 
Have pity, all ye that draw breath, 
O men, have pity upon Death. 
The bells that weigh about my brows, 
And ring all flesh into my house. 
Are a fool`s witless bells; 
		[She throws down the cap of bells:
		I lead 
The dance of fools, a fool indeed; 
And my hands gather where they find, 
For I am Death, and I am blind. 
	[She takes off the mask and falls on her knees.]I70
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