𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

06 November 2026 18:00

'All That'

By Charles Bukowski

the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening,
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it's cool.

and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the
half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.

this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.

it's like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

04 November 2026 18:00

'The Study In Aesthetics'

By Ezra Pound

The very small children in patched clothing,
Being smitten with an unusual wisdom,
Stopped in their play as she passed them
And cried up from their cobbles:

Guarda! Ahi, guarda! Ch’ è be’ a!

But three years after this
I heard the young Dante, whose last name I do not
know--
For there are, in Sirmione, twenty-eight young Dantes
and thirty-four Catulli;
And there had been a great catch of sardines,
And his elders
Were packing them in the great wooden boxes
For the market in Brescia, and he
Leapt about, snatching at the bright fish
And getting in both of their ways;
And in vain they commanded him to stafermo!
And when they would not let him arrange
The fish in the boxes
He stroked those which were already arranged,
Murmuring for his own satisfaction
This identical phrase:

Ch’ è be’ a

And at this I was mildly abashed.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

02 November 2026 18:00

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XXIV

I was off to the Eastern Cliff.
Planned that trip for how long?
Dragged myself up by hanging vines,
Stopped halfway, by wind and fog.
Thorn snatched my arm on narrow tracks,
Moss so deep it drowned my feet,
So I stopped, under this red pine.
Head among the clouds, I’ll sleep.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

29 October 2026 18:01

'Ballade Mystique'

By Clive Staples Lewis

The big, red-house is bare and lone
The stony garden waste and sere
With blight of breezes ocean blown
To pinch the wakening of the year;
My kindly friends with busy cheer
My wretchedness could plainly show.
They tell me I am lonely here—
What do they know? What do they know?

They think that while the gables moan
And easements creak in winter drear
I should be piteously alone
Without the speech of comrades dear;
And friendly for my sake they fear,
It grieves them thinking of me so
While all their happy life is near—
What do they know? What do they know?

That I have seen the Dagda’s throne
In sunny lands without a tear
And found a forest all my own
To ward with magic shield and spear,
Where, through the stately towers I rear
For my desire, around me go
Immortal shapes of beauty clear:
They do not know, they do not know.

L’ENVOI
The friends I have without a peer
Beyond the western ocean’s glow,
Whither the faerie galleys steer,
They do not know: how should they know?

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

27 October 2026 18:00

'The Aristocrat'

By Gilbert Keith Chesterton

The Devil is a gentleman and askes you down to stay
At his little place at What'sitsname (it isn't far away).
They say the sport is splendid; there is always something new,
And fairy scenes, and fearful feats that none but he can do;
He can shoot the feathered cherubs if they fly on the estate,
Or fish for Father Neptune with the mermaids for a bait;
He scaled amid the staggering stars that precipice the sky,
And blew his trumpet above heaven, and got by mastery
The starry crown of God Himself and shoved it on the shelf;
But the devil is a gentleman, and doesn't brag himself.

O blind your eyes and break your heart and hack your hand away,
And lose your love and shave your head; but do not go to stay
At the little place in What'hitsname where folks are rich and clever;
The golden and the goodly house, where things grow worse forever;
There are things you need not know of, though you live and die in vain,
There are souls more sick of pleasure than you are sick of pain;
There is a game of April Fool that's played behind its door,
Where the fool remains forever and April comes no more,
Where the splendor of the daylight grows drearier than the dark,
And life droops like a vulture that once was such a lark:
And that is the Blue Devil, that once was the Blue Bird;
For the Devil is a gentleman, and doesn't keep his word

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

23 October 2026 18:00

'Beauty Gone'

By Charles Bukowski

you were, at best
the delicate thought of a delicate hand
and when
beneath the love of flowers I am still and gone—
as the spider drinks the greening hour—
strike grey bells,
let a frog say
a voice is dead;
let the beasts of the forest,
the days that have hated this,
the contrary wives of unblinking grief
plan a small surrender somewhere
between Mexicali and Tampa;
you gone, cigarettes smoked, loaves sliced,
and lest this be taken for wry sorrow:
put the spider in wine,
crack the thin skull that held poor lightning,
make it all less than a treacherous kiss,
and put me down for the last dance
you much more dead than I:
I am a dish for your ashes,
I am a fist for your air.

the most immense thing about beauty
is finding it gone.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

21 October 2026 18:00

'Blossom White Bird Cherries Scatter...'

By Sergey Esenin

Blossom white bird cherries scatter
On the on the dewy grass like snow.
Hungry rooks in ploughland gather,
Picked warms up as they go.

Low the silk smooth grath is bending,
Pitch scents to the pine-trees cling.
Groves in leaf, and luscios meadows —
How the senses reel in spring!

Secret things give me pleasure,
Heart-ease and delight they bring.
There's a girl whose love I treasure
And of her alone I think.

Shed your blossom-snow, bird cherries!
Sing, birds, in they shady groves.
Weaving up and down the meadow
I'll go scattering flower foam.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

19 October 2026 18:00

'Yesterday Evening'

By Victor Hugo

Yesterday, the evening wind, its breath caressing,
Brought us the scent of flowers, opening tardily.
Night fell, the birds slept, deep in the darkened ways.
Spring was fragrant, but less than your young being,
The stars shone, but less brightly than your gaze.

I spoke in a quiet voice, at the sombre hour,
When the soul loves to sing its hymn most sweetly.
Seeing the night so pure, and you so lovely,
I said to the golden stars: shower heaven above
Over her! And to your eyes: on us shower love!

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

15 October 2026 18:00

From 'Scachs d'Amor'

By Don Francí de Castellví, Narcís Vinyoles & Mossèn Fenollar

Castellví

(Plays the King side rook pawn one point, threatening the Bishop)

Seeing the Gaze on such fine countenance,
The good Desire, serving under Reason,
Soon sent, with great reverence,
His Service, to receive one who excites him.
Affection, written upon one’s eyes,
Awakens the heart, for convenience
Of the lover, where true love dwells.
Conformity is the most certain bet
As among lovers it feeds their friendship.

Vinyoles

(His Queen’s Bishop takes the King’s Knight)

As Praise awakens the spirit
And placates Beauty with noble mien,
With Sweet Regard, hitting right on the heart,
Took Praise, in whom hope finds closure,
And to signify that the lover never lacks,
At any time, the offered end of love,
If the fountain of praise is never stanched.
For flatterers make the lady so happy
That discontentment appears as contentment.

Fenollar

(Says the King should not move to the third house over the other pieces)

It was agreed that Kings, in whom such value
Sits, should not jump over the others,
But rather, along safe roads
They must go, where robbers won’t attack.
For, as they shine with hour homage,
Leaving behind those who cannot help them,
If poorly guarded, they hurt themselves and their subjects.
Nature wills for members to defend
The head from hurt, as that’s where offense hits.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

13 October 2026 18:00

'Her Retinue'

By Paul Verlaine

A monkey in brocaded vest
Gambols and cavorts for She
Who twists a lace handkerchief
In her hand gloved to the wrist,

While a small black slave in red
Holds the train, at arm’s length,
Of her heavy robe, intent
To see that no fold’s disordered.

The monkey never takes his eyes
From the lady’s soft white throat.
Opulent treasure whose rich note
Asks a god’s torso, bare, as prize.

The slave will sometimes raise the height,
Rascal, higher than he needs,
Of his sumptuous load, so he
May see what he dreams of at night;

Yet she appears now unaware
As up the flight of stairs she goes
How insolent approval shows
In her familiar creatures’ stare.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

09 October 2026 18:00

'Jane And Prince'

By Charles Bukowski

we all lived together
in a small shack in
central L.A.

there was a woman in bed
with me then

and there was a very large
dog
on the foot of the bed

and as they slept
I listened to them
breathe

and I thought, they depend
on me.
how very curious.

I still had that thought
in the morning
after our breakfast
while backing the car
out of the drive

the woman and the dog
on the front step
sitting and watching
me

as I laughed and waved
and as she smiled and
waved

and the dog watched
as I backed out into the
street and disappeared
into the city.

now tonight
many years later
I still think of them
sitting there on that
front step

it’s like an old
movie—50 years
old—that nobody ever
saw or could understand
but me

and even though some
critics would dub this
ordinary

I like it
very much.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

07 October 2026 18:02

From 'Tao Te Ching'

The Book of The Way and its Virtue

Credited to Lao-Tzu (Laozi)

Book 1

V

Heaven and earth are ruthless,
Trampling the myriad creatures like straw dogs.
The wise are ruthless,
Considering the people as straw dogs.
The space between earth and heaven,
Isn’t it like a bellows?
It’s empty but never exhausted.
The more it works the more flows out.
Much speech leads in the end to silence.
Better to hold fast to the Void.

VI

The spirit of the valley never dies.
It is called the mysterious female.
The gate of the mysterious female
Is called the root of heaven and earth.
Barely seen, it hardly seems there,
Yet use will never exhaust it.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

05 October 2026 18:00

'The Human Tree'

By Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Many have Earth's lovers been,
Tried in seas and wars, I ween;
Yet the mightiest have I seen:
Yea, the best saw I.
One that in a field alone
Stood up stiller than a stone
Lest a moth should fly.

Birds had nested in his hair,
On his shoon were mosses rare,
Insect empires flourished there,
Worms in ancient wars;
But his eyes burn like a glass,
Hearing a great sea of grass
Roar towards the stars.

From them to the human tree
Rose a cry continually:
Thou art still, our Father, we
Fain would have thee nod.
Make the skies as blood below thee,
Though thou slay us, we shall know thee.
Answer us, O God!

Show thine ancient fame and thunder,
Split the stillness once asunder,
Lest we whisper, lest we wonder
Art thou there at all?'
But I saw him there alone,
Standing stiller than a stone
Lest a moth should fall.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

01 October 2026 18:01

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XX

What a road the Cold Mountain road!
Not a sign of horse or cart.
Winding gorges, tricky to trace.
Massive cliffs, who knows how high?
Where the thousand grasses drip with dew,
Where the pine trees hum in the wind.
Now the path’s lost, now it’s time
For body to ask shadow: ‘Which way home?’

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

29 September 2026 18:03

'Acrobats'

By Guillaume Apollinaire

The strollers in the plain
walk the length of gardens
before the doors of grey inns
through villages without churches

And the children gone before
The others follow dreaming
Each fruit tree resigns itself
When they signal from afar

They have burdens round or square
drums and golden tambourines
Apes and bears wise animals
gather coins as they progress

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

05 November 2026 18:00

'Fungi From Yuggoth'

By Howard Phillips Lovecraft

XXI. Nyarlathotep

And at the last from inner Egypt came
The strange dark One to whom the fellahs bowed;
Silent and lean and cryptically proud,
And wrapped in fabrics red as sunset flame.
Throngs pressed around, frantic for his commands,
But leaving, could not tell what they had heard;
While through the nations spread the awestruck word
That wild beasts followed him and licked his hands.

Soon from the sea a noxious birth began;
Forgotten lands with weedy spires of gold;
The ground was cleft, and mad auroras rolled
Down on the quaking citadels of man.
Then, crushing what he chanced to mould in play,
The idiot Chaos blew Earth’s dust away.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

03 November 2026 18:00

'Crisis Is A Hair'

By Emily Dickinson

Crisis is a Hair
Toward which the forces creep
Past which forces retrograde
If it come in sleep

To suspend the Breath
Is the most we can
Ignorant is it Life or Death
Nicely balancing.

Let an instant push
Or an Atom press
Or a Circle hesitate
In Circumference

It may jolt the Hand
That adjusts the Hair
That secures Eternity
From presenting Here

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

30 October 2026 18:00

'Event'

By Charles Bukowski

earlier tonight
there was a fire in the
neighborhood.
we stood there
watching the fire,
and when they put it out
there was nothing but the smell
of smoke and wet burned wood,
and then the firemen left
and we all went back
to our small rooms.
looking out the window
I could see 2 or 3
old women
in shawls
still talking about
it.
I walked to the stove
and put some coffee
on the burner and then
turned on the radio
for something
new.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

28 October 2026 18:00

'No Notice Gave She, But A Change'

By Emily Dickinson

No Notice gave She, but a Change --
No Message, but a Sigh --
For Whom, the Time did not suffice
That She should specify.

She was not warm, though Summer shone
Nor scrupulous of cold
Though Rime by Rime, the steady Frost
Upon Her Bosom piled --

Of shrinking ways -- she did not fright
Though all the Village looked --
But held Her gravity aloft --
And met the gaze -- direct --

And when adjusted like a Seed
In careful fitted Ground
Unto the Everlasting Spring
And hindered but a Mound

Her Warm return, if so she chose --
And We -- imploring drew --
Removed our invitation by
As Some She never knew --

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

26 October 2026 18:00

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XXIII

The everyday mind: that is the way.
Buried in vines and rock-bound caves,
Here it’s wild, here I am free,
Idling with the white clouds, my friends.
Tracks here never reach the world;
No-mind, so what can shift my thought?
I sit the night through on a bed of stone,
While the moon climbs Cold Mountain.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

22 October 2026 18:00

'Cythera'

By Paul Verlaine

A summer-house’s lattices
Tenderly hide our caresses,
Joy the rose-tree cools, sweet friend:

Scents of the rose, languidly,
Thanks to the passing summer breeze,
With her own fragrance blend:

As the promise her eyes gave,
Her courage is complete, while her
Lips yield exquisite fever:

And Love having sated all things save
Appetite: jams and sorbets here
Keep from us the ache of hunger.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

20 October 2026 18:00

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XXII

No knowing how far it is,
This place where I spend my days.
Tangled vines move without a breeze,
Bamboo in the light shows dark.
Streams down-valley sob for whom?
Mists cling together, who knows why?
Sitting in my hut at noon,
Suddenly, I see the sun has risen.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

16 October 2026 18:00

'I Was Her Lover'

By Charles Bukowski

it’s my turn now
up through the green wave
blood bubbles,
my body
flesh on some great hook;
names, cities, dreams,
it’s my turn now,
I have watched them all go,
friends and lovers,
I have watched the pianist play on
after the audience has left,
it’s my turn to go now,
all large growing fit to a thimble,
down,
down
with them, with her,
cities taken and buried
this way,
animals like mountains
and mountains themselves,
lightning and prayer and then
the sea,
snuffed out we are
like nothing,
like nothing we are
and the pianist plays on
as small devils slide down the balustrade,
I am going
down now through the green wave
where no lightning can reach
hold me
air and water,
hold me,
blot out the
voices from faces that eat stale bread and grit
and speak nothing but lies,
I was her lover and she was life
and she turned her back and walked away.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

14 October 2026 18:00

'A Cider Song'

By Gilbert Keith Chesterton

To J.S.M.

The wine they drink in Paradise
They make in Haute Lorraine;
God brought it burning from the sod
To be a sign and signal rod
That they that drink the blood of God
Shall never thirst again.

The wine they praise in Paradise
They make in Ponterey,
The purple wine of Paradise,
But we have better at the price;
It's wine they praise in Paradise,
It's cider that they pray.

The wine they want in Paradise
They find in Plodder's End,
The apple wine of Herford,
Of Hafod Hill and Herford,
Where woods went down to Herford,
And there I had a friend.

The soft feet of the blessed go
In the soft western vales,
The road of the silent saints accord,
The road from heaven to Herford,
Where the apple wood of Herford
Goes all the way to Wales.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

12 October 2026 18:00

'Words From Cold Mountain'

By Han-shan

XXI

Always it’s cold on this mountain!
Every year, and not just this.
Dense peaks, thick with snow.
Black pine-trees breathing mist.
It’s summer before the grass grows,
Not yet autumn when the leaves fall.
Full of illusions, I roam here,
Gaze and gaze, but can’t see the sky.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

08 October 2026 18:00

'All Summarised The Soul…'

By Stéphane Mallarmé

All summarised, the soul,
When slowly we breathe it out
In several rings of smoke
By other rings wiped out

Bears witness to some cigar
Burning skilfully while
The ash is separated far
From its bright kiss of fire

Should the choir of romantic art
Fly so towards your lips
Exclude from it if you start
The real because it’s cheap

Meaning too precise is sure
To void your dreamy literature.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

06 October 2026 18:01

'Fungi From Yuggoth'

By Howard Phillips Lovecraft

XX. Night-Gaunts

Out of what crypt they crawl, I cannot tell,
But every night I see the rubbery things,
Black, horned, and slender, with membraneous wings,
And tails that bear the bifid barb of hell.
They come in legions on the north wind’s swell,
With obscene clutch that titillates and stings,
Snatching me off on monstrous voyagings
To grey worlds hidden deep in nightmare’s well.

Over the jagged peaks of Thok they sweep,
Heedless of all the cries I try to make,
And down the nether pits to that foul lake
Where the puffed shoggoths splash in doubtful sleep.
But oh! If only they would make some sound,
Or wear a face where faces should be found!

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

02 October 2026 18:00

'On A Night You Don't Sleep'

By Charles Bukowki

at the sea at the beach in the dark there was somebody
sitting in a car along the shore and playing this drum
as if in Africa and the cops rode by on the sidewalk
and I went down to the disappointing sea
and saw two blue lights in the water and a boat
and a man walked by in a white shirt and squatted by the
shore and got up and walked along the shore
and then another man came and followed him:
they both walked along the shore by the water
one 12 feet behind the other and I watched them until
they disappeared and then I got up and walked through
the sand to the cement and through a bar door I saw a
negro singing with a light on his face
he wailed a strange song and the sound of the song twisted
in the air and everything was empty and dry and easy
and I got into my car and drove back to the hot city
but I knew I would always remember the time
and the catch of it—the way the night hung undisturbed
with people walking on it like some quiet rug
and a small boat rocking bravely by bulldogging water
and the colored pier lights like a broken mind sick in the sea.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

30 September 2026 18:00

'As The Ruin Falls'

By Clive Staples Lewis

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love —a scholar's parrot may talk Greek—
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲

28 September 2026 18:00

From 'All's Well That Ends Well'

By William Shakespeare

Act 2, Scene 2

Countess

To the court! why, what place make you special,
when you put off that with such contempt? But to the court!

Clown

Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he
may easily put it off at court: he that cannot make a leg, put off's cap, kiss his hand and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.

Countess

Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all
questions.

Clown

It is like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks,
the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn
buttock, or any buttock.

Countess

Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

Clown

As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a morris for May-day, as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding queen to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth, nay, as the pudding to his skin.

Countess

Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness for all questions?

Clown

From below your duke to beneath your constable, it
will fit any question.

Countess

It must be an answer of most monstrous size that
must fit all demands.

Clown

But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should speak truth of it: here it is, and all that belongs to't. Ask me if I am a courtier: it shall do you no harm to learn.

Countess

To be young again, if we could: I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you a courtier?

Clown

O Lord, sir! There's a simple putting off. More, more, a hundred of them.

Countess

Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.