[Verse 1] Chelsea morning, tables dressed in white, Roper counts the chairs, Lady More checks each light, Servants polish silver for the Mayor's own plate, When a knock announces players, dressed in Cardinal's crimson and slate. They're Wolsey's own troupe, traveling with their cart, Offering a show to brighten up the heart, More claps his hands, says "let the waits strike up their tune" — those town musicians piping bright beneath the afternoon. [Chorus] It's a play inside a play, a mirror held up twice, Wit meets Wisdom, folly whispers its advice, An interlude — a short and moral little show — where the Vice, the tempter, tugs the strings and steals the glow. [Verse 2] More picks "The Marriage of Wit and Wisdom" for the night, Welcomes in the Mayor with a bow and candlelight, But the curtain stalls — young Wit has got no beard to wear, Vanity delays the art, while Luggins hunts for hair. Luggins plays Good Counsel, but he's gone to fetch the fleece, So More himself steps forward, won't let the murmurs cease, Slips inside the part, extempore and bold — unscripted, quick, inventing lines before they're told. [Verse 3] "To marry wit to wisdom asks some cunning," More declares, his borrowed robe still running, "Many have wit, that may come short of wisdom" too — cleverness alone won't carry what the wise men do. "Folly waits on wit, as the shadow on the body," trailing every quick mind like a shade that's shoddy, Young Wit sighs out, "In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure," chasing every trinket, counting pleasure as his treasure. [Chorus] It's a play inside a play, a mirror held up twice, Wit meets Wisdom, folly whispers its advice, An interlude — a short and moral little show — where the Vice, the tempter, tugs the strings and steals the glow. [Bridge] Inclination grins behind his painted sleeve, "Would not my lord make a rare player?" — hard to disbelieve, Then a summons breaks the scene — the court has called More's name, He's gone before the final bow, mid-verse, mid-flame. The steward counts the angels — gold coins, ten were owed, Pockets two himself, hands eight down the road, More hears the whisper, fires the thief before the dark, Pays the players every angel — justice leaves its mark. [Outro] Remember Chelsea's banquet, the beard that came too late, A statesman turned a player to help the scene create, One day he'll stand on scaffold boards and call himself the same — a stage player to the end, still speaking out his name. [Chorus] It's a play inside a play, a mirror held up twice, Wit meets Wisdom, folly whispers its advice, An interlude — a short and moral little show — where the Vice, the tempter, tugs the strings and steals the glow.
← Act 3, Scene 3: A Feast for the Mayor | Act 4, Scene 2: The King's Articles →