A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern-bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in flint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge: your neck, sir, is pen, book and counters; so the acquittance follows.
A heavy bill for you, sir. But the good news is, you won’t owe anything more, no more tavern bills; which are often the saddest part of leaving, but also the cause of fun: you come in hungry, leave stumbling from too much drink; regretting you paid too much, and regretting you were overpaid; both your purse and mind are empty; your brain heavier because it’s too light, and the purse too light, drained of weight: you’ll be free from this contradiction now. Oh, the kindness of a little rope! It settles everything in an instant: you have no true debtor or creditor but it; for what’s past, what is, and what’s to come, it’s all cleared up: your neck, sir, is the pen, the book, and the calculator; so the settlement is made.
First Gaoler · Act 5, Scene 4
The Gaoler, preparing Posthumus for execution, delivers a sermon on debt and death disguised as dark comedy about tavern bills and hangman's ropes. The speech lands because it uses the language of accounting to make mortality absurd and almost bearable. It shows how language itself becomes a way to transform despair into something that can be spoken aloud.
A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern-bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in flint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge: your neck, sir, is pen, book and counters; so the acquittance follows.
A heavy bill for you, sir. But the good news is, you won’t owe anything more, no more tavern bills; which are often the saddest part of leaving, but also the cause of fun: you come in hungry, leave stumbling from too much drink; regretting you paid too much, and regretting you were overpaid; both your purse and mind are empty; your brain heavier because it’s too light, and the purse too light, drained of weight: you’ll be free from this contradiction now. Oh, the kindness of a little rope! It settles everything in an instant: you have no true debtor or creditor but it; for what’s past, what is, and what’s to come, it’s all cleared up: your neck, sir, is the pen, the book, and the calculator; so the settlement is made.
First Gaoler · Act 5, Scene 4
The Gaoler, preparing Posthumus for execution, delivers a sermon on debt and death disguised as dark comedy about tavern bills and hangman's ropes. The speech lands because it uses the language of accounting to make mortality absurd and almost bearable. It shows how language itself becomes a way to transform despair into something that can be spoken aloud.
I’ll be hang’d then.
I’ll be damned then.
First Gaoler · Act 5, Scene 4
Posthumus, on the way to be executed, has just been told he is being pardoned and freed instead. The Gaoler responds with this four-word curse, realizing his moment of dark authority has vanished. It captures how quickly power shifts and how those who serve it must accept their powerlessness.
