“Past the tyrant’s stroke” - the comfort of Shakespeare

I’ve never seen a production of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline, but like most people, I know the funeral song from Act IV, Scene 2, which begins: “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun…”. The retired actor Paul Williamson opened proceedings at a “Pass On A Poem” event in Chiswick last night by reading it, and reading  it beautifully.

It’s one of my favourite poems, and I’ve thought about reading it myself at one of these get-togethers, but the fact that there are usually professional actors in the audience from a generation that knew how to do Shakespeare properly has always stopped me – rightly, judging by how superbly it was performed last night.

I’ve always found it a tremendously comforting poem. Many years ago, when I finally escaped the clutches of the only genuine psychopath I have ever worked for, the lines: “Fear no more the frown of the great/Thou art past the tyrant's stroke” went through my head for days afterwards. To this day, it’s one of a handful of verses I’ve learned by heart and recite to myself at regular intervals: it makes me feel safe, somehow. 

I’m sure you know it well, but in case you’d like to refresh your memory, here it is:

                Fear no more the heat o' the sun; 

                Nor the furious winter's rages, 

                Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

                Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages; 

                Golden lads and girls all must, 

                As chimney-sweepers come to dust. 

                Fear no more the frown o’ the great, 

                Thou art past the tyrant's stroke: 

                Care no more to clothe and eat; 

                To thee the reed is as the oak: 

                The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

                All follow this, and come to dust. 

                Fear no more the lightning-flash, 

                Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; 

                Fear not slander, censure rash; 

                Thou hast finished joy and moan; 

                All lovers young, all lovers must 

                Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

                No exorciser harm thee! 

                Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 

                Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 

                Nothing ill come near thee! 

                Quiet consummation have; 

                And renowned be thy grave! 

Two things. During the interval last night, Paul Williamson told me that someone had suggested to him that “chimney sweeper” was a term for the tall bull-rushes that were once used to sweep chimneys – which seems to make sense. And the last stanza is often omitted by anthologists - no idea why.