It's Wednesday again, which means another installment of Shakespearean Imagination!
Friday at 11:12 UTC (Universal Coordinated Time) marks the solstice. It’s the summer solstice, or Midsummer, if you’re in the southern hemisphere (and the longest amount of daylight); the winter solstice, or Yule, if you’re in the northern hemisphere (and the shortest amount of daylight). In spite of that, the solstice often marks the start of its corresponding season – the end of spring/beginning of summer or end of fall/beginning of winter, depending on which hemisphere you are referring to.
The solstice this year has come under especial scrutiny thanks to interpretations of the ancient Mayan civilisation, and their apparent prediction that the world will end with the solstice.
With that, I give you today’s word:
-lack of contentment; dissatisfaction with one’s circumstances.
-a person who is dissatisfied, typically with the prevailing social or political situation.
Synonyms dissatisfaction – displeasure – unhappiness
First seen in Shakespeare's Richard III (written 1592 - 1593). The full text of the play may be found here. The soliloquy in which the word appears is one of Shakespeare’s most famous:
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,
About a prophecy, which says that 'G'
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here