POETRY IN LOCKDOWN: 13

In the misery of mourning there is much about our own uncertainty of death. It is sure that we will die, but into what state? On Shakespeare’s birthday I offer an extract from Measure for Measure (Act 3 Sc 1) in which the fear that eats into this question is forensically examined.

Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
This sensible, warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence about
The pendant world; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and incertain
Imagine howling: ’tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury and imprisonment
Can lay on nature is a paradise
To what we fear of death.