But also from tsoris, from sadness of life, this also when you see him dance the country Morris.
Laughing, but also almost rheumy tears are coming from your eyes, we want to see that we should be laughing at this, what it is to be alive and a mensch!
How laugh? Even now I'm remembering, so how laugh when you should come a bube from shtetl where the Moscovies do pogrom against you, that you should wander like a English vagabond across all Europe to England where you at first don't know no English words, but to England because you don't go to Spain where they kill you for being Jew, or even Italy where you have to wear the yellow badge on your coat so they know to spit on you in the street, so you come to England where you can't even speak the English, can't have a license even to beg the almshouse, where in town apprentice boys throw stones at you if they know you're the Jew, where in the country Tom o'Bedlam vagabonds or the Abraham Men or Counterfeit Cranks who pretend they're mad cut your throat in a ditch because you got no purse they can steal, or even just plain rustics hit you with cudgels for sportinghow lacheln for this tsoris grief?
But I laugh, if only a little, even now remembering at the same time I want to daven like I leaned in chedar school in shtetl, punch my breast for this tsoris grief I'm feeling looking at my Will Kempe dancing like he was still alive!
Everyone watching him dance the country Morris I know is feeling the samelace-mutton kurveh they probably got a pox they'll give free with the price, nobility gallants with their expensive cloaks with lace ruffs starched stiff and padded gaskins and embroidered codpieces with some even jewels on them too, butchers still bloody from their shops, tailors and booksellers and Thames watermen and carters and porters and toss-pots come out from taverns with Tom Tapster himself to see, merchants from the Royal Exchange, rustics in town for a market, wags and wits from the Globe, corders and coopers and chandlers and joiners, apprentice boys from the twelve London companies, cut-purses and coney-catchers looking for gulls, pickpockets working the crowd to steal from them watching the dance, nice ladies in farthingales with pomanders hanging from their necks so they shouldn't have to smell the stink from the people and the streets, with their faces made white with white lead mixed with vinegar to make them pale and cover the smallpox scars, and also masks they wore to keep the sun from making them swart in the face, and masons, and justices from the Temple, even Brownist Puritans wearing dull gray kersey, and licensed beggars asking almsall laughing!
For tsoris. From being mensch alive to suffer cold winter and wet summer and ranks and stations and the pain from empty guts or your guts burned from tippling, and any time you could as easy catch a jade's pox or take plague it don't help none they fumigate the streets or write God have mercy on us! Over your door to your houseas easy you could die quick from a falling sickness or a wasting disease, as easy in a ditch or a suicide buried at a crossroads who the English think get up and walk around as spirits when it gets dark night.
Lacheln im tsoris for watching this Fool Will Kempe dance a pantomime country Morris of it all, to music just from a pipe and tabor and his bells strapped to his ankles and legs, a coxcomb hat on his head, parti-colored motley costume, a mensch himself so hard-favored ugly with a rash on his punim face could possibly be a pox, dancing it all to make a laugh from the grief, which is how you're able to have all the grief, laughing, if you can't daven or read the Common Prayer Book because you never did or learned or else forgot how when it didn't help nothing!
Listen what I'm telling.
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