Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer?

"Belike then my appetite was not princely got, for, by my

troth, I do now remember the poor creature small beer."

Shakespeare and beer are two of my most pleasurable passions. And as Hamlet says, "Oh, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet." Fortunately for me, the Bard was steeped in the everyday activities and traditions of merry old England, and pub potables was one of the most prominent subjects in many of his plays. As I've come to know from deep research (i.e. personal experience in pubs), imbibing remains an essential and obligatory part of British life. Here in America, beer has enjoyed a renaissance in the last decade. Craft brews are the bee's knees, and I'm just thankful that Florida is proving a haven for such fermented artistry. 

In Shakespeare's day, ale and wine were the few beverages that were safe to consume, and it's safe to say that it wasn't as tasty as that nice IPA or hefeweizen available at an ABC Liquors. Prince Hal's "small beer" was likely a watery ale of low alcohol percentage, just enough to kill the bugs that would be in well water. It was generally made with the second or third runnings of a stronger beer's mash, such as that of a barleywine (oh boy, now THAT stuff will put hair on your chest). 

Now Falstaff's poison of choice was "sack," which is cousin to the small beer in the quality department. The sack he had access to was low-grade wine that was relatively infection-free, but tasted questionable enough that one would need to add flavor enhancements. Sir John famously says in 1 Henry IV, "If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked." Sack was a fortified wine, like a sherry, and was already very sweet, so imagine how indulgent sack and sugar must've been. In The Merry Wives Of Windsor, Falstaff demands, "Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in't." This request hints at the origin of "toasting" with wine: the Romans would add to their pitchers some burnt toast, whose charcoal would reduce the acidity and unpalatable flavours of slightly off vino they were used to drinking. 

Now I'm craving something far more tasty and refined to pour into my pint glasses I recently picked up at the Guinness brewery, so I'll let you go with these classic quotations. SLÁINTE/CHEERS!

“Come, come; good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well us’d…”

Iago, “Othello,” Act II, Sc. III

“Would I were in an alehouse in London, I would give all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.”

Boy, “King Henry V,” Act III, Sc. II

“We’ll teach you to drink deep, ere you depart.”

Hamlet, “Hamlet,” Act I, Sc.II

“Come, thou monarch of the wine,

Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!

In thy fats our cares be drow’d,

With thy grapes our hairs be crown’d!

Cup us till the world go round,

Cup us till the world go round!”

Enobarbus, “Antony & Cleopatra,” Act II, Sc. VII

“Doth it not show vilely in me to desire small beer?”

Prince Hal, “King Henry IV, part Two,” Act II, Sc. II

“… and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things… 
nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes; it provokes 
the desire, but it takes away the performance." 

Porter, “Macbeth,” Act II, Sc. III

“With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls

Than our priest-like fasts…”

Menenius, “Coriolanus,” Act V, Sc. I

“For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.”

Autolycus, “The Winter’s Tale,” Act IV, Sc. III

“Drink a good hearty draught, it breeds good blood, man.”

Arcite, “The Two Noble Kinsmen,” Act III, Sc. III

There is an old tale goes...

These ladies know how to tame horny old Falstaff

I saw my high school's production of The Merry Wives of Windsor half my life ago. One of my dearest friends (who is still one of my dearest) played one of the Mistresses (she cannot even remember which), and it was absolutely hilarious. Imagine a teenage boy with pillows stuffed under his shirt acting like God's gift to women, jumping in and out of clothes hampers and making a general ruckus so ridiculous that everyone laughed even if they didn't know what the hell they were saying. Pretty magical.

Allegedly Shakespeare's favor to Queen Elizabeth, Merry Wives stars everyone's favorite walking farce, Sir John Falstaff. Instead of historical battle, he attempts a far more dangerous endeavor: seduction. He's after Mistress Page and Mistress Ford (or, more accurately, their money), who do an epic job of proving him an epic fool. After enduring being treated as dirty laundry and being dressed as "the fat woman of Brentford," Falstaff is convinced to disguise himself as Herne the Hunter, horns and all, to meet his feminine quarry in the nearby wood. The women recruit local children to dress up and act as mischievous fairies meant to punish Falstaff for his attempted cuckoldry. Mistress Page explains the tale of Herne the Hunter for her husband while they are conjuring this plot:

The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV, Sc. IV
Mistress Margaret Page: 
There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,
Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest,
Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight,
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;
And there he blasts the tree and takes the cattle
And makes milch-kine yield blood and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner:
You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know
The superstitious idle-headed eld
Received and did deliver to our age
This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.

I know you all...

I would be remiss not to acknowledge how much the BBC's Hollow Crown series influenced this particular choice of speech. On the brink of full-throttle fangirling over Tom Hiddleston's Loki in Thor/Avengers and his Magnus in Wallander, I fell once again into the King Henry V trap known as the "Wooing of Kate" scene. It pushed me over the edge in regards to Sir Ken, and it did the same with Hiddles. My heart had no chance. 

The Hollow Crown is a thoroughly engaging series anyway, and I highly recommend it to all who enjoy really solid acting and movie-making. The series covers the Henriad, aka Richard II, Henry IV (Parts One and Two), and Henry V. It was a treat to see the character arc of one of my favorites--Prince Hal--brought to life by a damn pretty man, who just happens to be talented as well, which is always a plus. 

The Prince of Wales appears to be a wayward son. As much is hinted at within the text of Richard II, wherein the newly-crowned Henry IV mentions that his "unthrifty son" frequents taverns and hangs out with "unrestrained loose companions," engaging in wanton, youthful activity most unprince-like. The King's chagrin continues into the next two plays as the jolly Prince Hal carouses with the likes of John Falstaff and his knobbly-nosed bosom buddies in Eastcheap amongst winos and prostitutes.

But Hal has a plan, which he deftly outlines in the first act of 1 Henry IV. His soliloquy reveals to the audience that all his delinquent behavior is an act meant to make his planned rise to the throne and subsequent sudden competency appear miraculous, therefore completely blowing his enemies' minds. Meanwhile, it's hinted later on that Hal is steeping himself in the base environs of his subjects to better understand the nuances of the commonweal and how to best relate to their motivations--presumably, a kingly tool to be wielded later as soldiers are mustered for a questionable foreign war. 

However, one cannot assume Hal's not enjoying himself immensely during his wild salad days. He's witty and loves to banter with the sack-soaked Falstaff, but knows deep down that it shall not last much longer. The beauty of these plays is the depth of the dynamic Prince's characterization and how a few key events subtly disclose Hal's inner hatred and ultimate acceptance of the ambivalence required of a king. This first speech is not yet too cynical, and full of the hope that his prodigal son project will work out in the end.

King Henry IV, First Part, Act I, Sc. II

Henry, Prince of Wales:

I know you all, and will awhile uphold 
The unyok'd humour of your idleness. 
Yet herein will I imitate the Sun, 
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds 
To smother up his beauty from the world, 
That, when he please again to be himself, 
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at, 
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists 
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him. 
If all the year were playing holidays, 
To sport would be as tedious as to work; 
But, when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come, 
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. 
So when this loose behaviour I throw off, 
And pay the debt I never promised, 
By how much better than my word I am, 
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes; 
And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, 
My reformation, glitt'ring o'er my fault, 
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes 
Than that which hath no foil to set it off. 
I'll so offend to make offense a skill, 
Redeeming time when men think least I will.

Virtue? A fig!

Only Sir Olivier has the stones (and the talent) to play Othello in blackface. Do not try this at home, kids.

Every deceitful villain in literature, film, and pop culture has Iago's DNA in their blood. From Professor Moriarty to Loki, Dennis Nedry to Gollum, anyone who presents themselves as trustworthy while they smile and smile and work to betray our heroes has descended from that granddaddy of evil genius who could drive a man to murder with nought but a wave of a handkerchief. 

With 1097 lines,* Iago is third only to Richard III (1152) and Hamlet (1422) in pure lung power (per play... Hal/Henry V, whose breath sweeps through three plays, has over 1800 lines, and Falstaff has over 1600 in his three appearances). What does he accomplish with all this vocal ability, other than a whole lot of soap operatic trouble?

As with all Shakespearean villains, he speaks hard truths that cannot be cast aside with all his lies. The speech I chose strikes me as one of those particularly obvious observations of human nature. He is honest after all, since Iago is well aware that he is a perfect example of one who has chosen to sow his own seeds of villainy. He is the quintessential example of how WRONG Polonius** is when he utters   

"To thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man." Iago is true to himself, and yet is false to everyone. 

After all his silver-tongued philosophizing, one line haunts me the most. It's Iago's final line in the play, directed at Othello after Iago's one-man complot has been exposed: 

"Demand me nothing; what you know, you know:

From this time forth I never will speak word."

Lodovico's immediate response is "What, not to pray?" and Gratiano grumbles "Torments will ope your lips." But Othello stares at Iago and says "Well, thou dost best."

Iago's felt slighted the entire time, ever since Othello made Cassio his lieutenant, and perhaps even before that, as this line suggests. They appear to have a secret between them, and despite Iago's attempt to ruin Othello's good name, when Iago's honesty is finally stained, the bastard decides to zip his lip. What  have they seen and done together in their battles and voyages? What makes Iago loathe and love Othello so much? Why do I love Iago more than Polonius? Because in the end, Iago is honest.

Othello, Act I, Sc. III

Iago: Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus

or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which
our wills are gardeners: so that if we will plant
nettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up
thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, or
distract it with many, either to have it sterile
with idleness, or manured with industry, why, the
power and corrigible authority of this lies in our
wills. If the balance of our lives had not one
scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the
blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us
to most preposterous conclusions: but we have
reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal
stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that
you call love to be a sect or scion.

*The actual numbers of lines depend on the version/edition you read, but you get the idea.
**I fucking HATE this quote because everyone uses it out of context and they never seem to realize that everyone in Shakespeare's time understood it to be an empty, banal platitude worthy of so much eye-rolling.