This play was over much too soon
In Stratford, Thursday afternoon:
The Misanthrope, writ by Moliere,
In which Alceste scolds Celly fair
For flirty ways and gossip talk—
Her heart is free to all who knock.
He rages too at all mankind:
Their two-faced words and two-faced mind.
Himself, for all his honesty
And his extremely blunt esprit,
He’s seen by all as rather rude—
Alceste, we learn, a hated dude.
When asked to judge a little verse,
Without concern he says his worst:
The truth! that being too offend
Made he before a jury stand.
And though at end the lovers cease
To bicker, set for loving peace,
Two letters wreck the armistice:
Cute Celly’s quite the loving bitch.
Alceste storms out in raging huff;
He’s had of manners quite enough.
His friends give chase to make amends,
And that, my friend, is how it ends.
And this hereafter’s what I reckon,
How the play to me did beckon:
The stage was dressed in period style
With classic French décor and tile,
The set so wondrous to behold,
The costumes rich with richness old.
The acting, too, it was sublime:
Pleasing all with phrase and rhyme.
The players were natural and unforced,
(The small Marquis laughed like a horse)
The course of action very smooth,
The humor funny sans reprove.
But, Alceste was prone to stumble:
With the lines he’d sometimes fumble.
His acting still, it was superb,
If even accident the verb.
But all in all and such as such,
This play I did love very much,
And as for you I dearly hope
It was as good—The Misanthrope.