What a wonder is this when,
in comedies, hearts so easily forgive
and fair Hero, though dissembling
in death, is found in her Claudio’s arms.
Though hatred and scorn do signify
the souls of our Benedick and Beatrice
they are both so converted to love one another.
It is in utter happiness they sing
sighing no more for deceiving inconstancy.
For all must end as friends.
But not so easy an end is found
in tragedy’s impossible repair.
As love dies in Hamlet like his fairest Ophelia,
there seems no end to the ripping of love
and the burning of hatred, as undone
and bleeding each player lies.
When such betrayal is the theme
and families turn their hearts to hate,
only so bloody an end can be seen.
Such is the nature of tragedies.
But no farce nor force nor
sonnet, nor gut-wrenching monologue
can do justice to explain the pain
or the joy, the eagerness to renew,
yet the dread of defeat and disappointment.
Were it so easy to turn my heart to love
from hate on mere report, then convert I would do.
But being so transformed is toil
and cannot be accomplished
so swiftly as tricking and readily as mere words.
So counting each moment to decide,
am I in this role as comedian or tragedist?
Today, however comic or dismal will not tell.
Hence, play on, so as to uncover to what end.