Chapter III: Act II

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SCENE I.

_At the Mermaid. Ben Jonson is standing at the end of the room_,
L., _Fletcher and Lord Lacy near him. Marston and Dekker are
with Chapman in the middle. Chettle is seated_, R., _facing
Jonson. Shakespeare enters behind Chettle, door_ R.

JONSON:

[_Stretching._] It’s good to be free—free to feast, and not feed like a dog—free! That prison was killing me. [_Calling out as Shakespeare enters._] Ho, Will! here’s your chair, yawning till you come.

CHETTLE:

Here’s one with jaws as thirsty-wide, my lad, and dry to boot. Will you fill ’em?

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Passing Chettle with a smile._] The stranger first, Chettle, then the drink. I’ve not seen Ben for months and months. [_Goes to Jonson and takes both his hands._]

BEN JONSON:

[_Pushing a chair towards Shakespeare._] And now little poet, what will you drink? Canary or sack. [_Claps his hands._] Here, Drawer!

SHAKESPEARE:

I’m ill with thirst, and for that disease there’s no medicine like small beer.

JONSON:

[_To drawer._] Bring beer.

CHETTLE:

Have sack, Shakespeare, sack’s the drink: when sack goes in, wit comes out. Beer’s cold and thin, fit for young girls, who quake to think of lovers; but sack’s rich and generous, breeds courage and self-content; equals the poor man to kings, and kings to gods.

SHAKESPEARE:

[_To Jonson._] A little more, and he’d rise into measure.

JONSON:

Out of measure, you mean; the verse is my part. Curious how abstinence breeds desire, and desire song. Try prison for six months, Will, and your mouth will drip with longing for wine, women and good company. Ah, the leaden hours!

CHETTLE:

Ho! ho! my lad of the mountain. No prison needed by the godly. Without provocation or incitement I want women often, good company always, wine perpetually. It’s very strange: I’ve often had too much sack, often; but enough, never. Read me that riddle, Shakespeare!

SHAKESPEARE:

That desire, Chettle, still outlives performance, is no riddle. [_Turning to Jonson._] Your punishment punished all of us, Ben.

DEKKER:

And all for killing an actor.

SELDEN:

In fair duello, too: allowed since the Norman time.

LACY:

[_With gestures._] Was it a punto, Ben, or a reverso, an imbrocato or a montanto that reached the throne of life?

DEKKER:

[_Half maliciously._] Or did a mere _downright_ passada thrust poor Spencer from the stage?

JONSON:

[_Menacingly._] ’Twas a cudgel Downright used on Bobadill: don’t forget that, Cobbler!

DEKKER:

’Tis as good a trade as bricklaying, and gives more time for thought.

MARSTON:

Was it a Toledo, Ben, or a _long_ Fleming gave the mortal wound?

[_Jonson rises, crying_ “You dog!” _Lord Lacy on one side, and Shakespeare on the other, hold him back, and constrain him to sit._]

LACY:

Amity, friends, amity!

SHAKESPEARE:

Every man in his humour, Ben; who should know that better than you?

JONSON:

[_Sits again, grumbling._] The curs, who bark and run.

LACY:

Let’s have a hanap, friends, to cool the embers of strife.

CHETTLE:

One cup of sack, Shakespeare, to chase your melancholy and start your wit.

SHAKESPEARE:

Not one. Sweet wine on bitter beer would make me Chettle. [_Turns to Jonson._] So you became a Catholic in prison, Ben. Was it the loneliness, or fasting?

JONSON:

Loneliness, perhaps: in solitude one listens to the heart.

MARSTON [_Interrupting._]

That’s weak, Jonson, childish-weak. Solitude breeds religion as the dark breeds devils—out of fear.

DEKKER:

Religion’s a trade to the priest, an intrigue to women, to men a laughing-stock.

CHETTLE:

Don’t say that, don’t blaspheme, don’t attack the Faith, mad lads! I always mean to repent, but put off the evil day of reformation so long as health lasts. Conscience and sack struggle in me for the mastery, and the conflict makes me thirsty and so sack wins. But no scorners or blasphemers, say I.

SHAKESPEARE:

We’re all godly at heart; eh, Chettle? We all wish other men virtuous, so that there’ll be more frolic for us.

CHETTLE:

Ha! Ha! You’re right, lad! [_To the drawer._] Another cup, you bodkin, you radish, you—Ah, we are all sinners, Will, villainous sinners! [_He drinks._]

SELDEN:

I incline to the new faith. These puritans are much in earnest, though they go too far. One of them told me of late that actors should be outlawed, for they were not mentioned in the Bible. [_Laughs._]

CHETTLE:

[_Interrupting._] Why didn’t you reply that tailors weren’t mentioned there, either, and so the crophead knave himself should go naked.

MARSTON:

Wonder of wonders! Chettle is learned in the Scriptures.

LACY:

Our catechist in pious phrases, man, our doctor of divinity.

DEKKER:

He knows more of tavern reckonings! He! He!

CHETTLE:

Why not, lad, why not? The animal man must keep a balance.

SELDEN:

Religion is like the fashion; one man wears his doublet slashed, another laced, another plain, but every man has a doublet and a religion.

CHAPMAN:

[_Pompously._] ’Tis easy to mock at things sacred; but without religion there’d be no society. Be Protestant or Catholic, as you will; but without either we’d fall into anarchia.

JONSON:

Hum! I don’t know—What do you say, Shakespeare?

SHAKESPEARE:

If all our rushlights went out, the sun would still be shining.

LACY:

Oh, Shakespeare! What a blessed union of wit and poetry like virtue and beauty in a maid or a Toledo blade hafted to one Chrysolite.

CHETTLE:

I have a story, Ben, my bully boy, that you’ve not heard yet, a story of Will Shakespeare. Dick Burbage knows it. Ha! Ha!

MARSTON:

If new, let’s hear it.

DEKKER:

If old, it’s better than Chapman’s mouthing.

CHETTLE:

The pretty mercer’s wife, who often has a room to see the play, made a meeting with King Richard III, Dick Burbage, there. Quiet Will overheard the appointment, and after the play followed the lady. Poor Dick, having to change his robes, came late, and knocked. “Who’s there?” asked Will, from the inside. “Richard III,” whispered Dick. “Ah,” quoth Will, “Richard III comes after William the Conqueror.” Ho! ho! ho!

SELDEN:

So the sportive blood of youth beflecks the dignity of manhood!

DEKKER:

’Tis too pat to be true.

FLETCHER:

We poets are all given to Venus.

CHAPMAN:

How true that Venus story is, and how beautiful. We shall never equal the Greeks; never; they were our masters in everything.

CHETTLE:

Masters indeed! Here’s Shakespeare would put down any of them in anything.

JONSON:

I’m not sure of that, Chettle. The Agamemnon’s a great play.

CHETTLE:

Ay, but what say you to Henry IV.! That’s the play for me. I warrant the Greeks had nothing like Falstaff. What d’ye say, Shakespeare? Stand for your own, my boy!

JONSON:

He lacks the language, the window through which the Greeks must be studied.

CHETTLE:

It’s wit, man, ye want, not knowledge. Come, Will. Put the Briton above the Greek: I’ll tarre you on.

SHAKESPEARE:

I think the Greeks are over praised. Fancy making Love an inferior goddess, born of salt water. [“Ho! Ho!” _laughs Chettle_.] Love’s born of summer air and light; flowers are her footprints and the stars sing to her coming: Venus, not Jupiter, reigns in Heaven and Earth.

JONSON:

[_Interrupting._] Good, old Knowell, good! But let’s have a toast, or you’ll talk us all to death. Here’s to the ever-sacred memory of our great Queen, who lets players and playwrights live in spite of Puritans and preachers.

FLETCHER:

To the Virgin who beat the Spaniards, and made Britain mistress of the seas.

DEKKER:

In the same way the dog made the dinner, for he looked on, while men feasted.

SELDEN:

Hush, hush! No disloyalty!

CHETTLE:

[_Puts down the empty pot._] I’ll drink to no virgin, my roaring boys, not even in name. Obstruction’s twin brother to Destruction—I’ll none of it. Long live life! Here’s to the Queen’s great father, Henry VIII. There’s a man for you: could eat like a man, and drink like a man, and love like a man. He was a king, if you like. Here’s to his memory!

JONSON:

You can have him all to yourself, Chettle, your many-wived hero.

CHETTLE:

Tut, man, he was the eighth Harry, and had a right to eight wives. ’Tis the Scripture. [_Drinks._]

DEKKER:

Chettle’s drunk.

SHAKESPEARE:

Chettle’s right: here’s to the memory of Henry VIII, who gave wine to the laity, and women to the clergy.

[_All drink, laughing. Messenger enters, and speaks to Jonson, who rises hastily._]

JONSON:

Here’s my friend, Francis Bacon, come to see us.

CHETTLE:

Bring him in, lad: Shakespeare here’ll [_Exit Jonson_] teach him what he can’t find in law-books.

[_Jonson meets Bacon at the door._]

SCENE II.

BACON:

[_To Jonson, with hand outstretched._] Hearing of your discharge, I hastened to find you and share your joy, though alack! I was too weak to obtain your release.

JONSON:

That’s kind of you. Let me present my friends. This is young Fletcher, the poet, and Burbage whom you know, and Master Shakespeare, the best playwright of us all. And this, gentlemen, is Master Francis Bacon, the great philosopher.

SHAKESPEARE:

And friend to my lord of Essex.

BACON:

[_Turning to Shakespeare._] Yes: do you know the Earl?

SHAKESPEARE:

By the kindness of Lord Southampton, so far as a poor poet may.

JONSON:

He’ll win Lord Burghley’s place or fall to ruin. But I fear his violence and wild courses.

BACON:

When Lord Essex comes to power, he will act more soberly. Great men are like the heavenly bodies; they move violently to their places, and calmly in their places.

SHAKESPEARE:

True, true! His violence is all of quick feeling: at heart he is most generous-kind.

BACON:

You do not overpraise him; yet on troubled sea, small sails of will and temper are the safest.

SHAKESPEARE:

Lord Essex is too great to think of safety; he dreams of noble deeds, and does them.

BACON:

[_After pausing._] Your praise does you credit; it shall be reported to the Earl. But I came to greet Jonson, and hear his new song: I must soon be on my way.

SELDEN:

[_To Fletcher._] Curious, the two masters can neither wrestle nor embrace: Bacon’s on earth, Shakespeare in the clouds.

FLETCHER:

[_Not listening._] Let us go into the inner room: we shall hear the music better. [_All go inside save Shakespeare and Jonson. Music is heard through the open door._]

JONSON:

[_Turning to Shakespeare._] So you are in love, I hear. Oh, that urchin, Cupid! But beware, Will, beware; his darts are all poisoned.

[_Takes Shakespeare’s arm, and draws him towards the inner room._]

SHAKESPEARE:

What sweet poison!

SCENE III.

_In the grounds of St. James’s Palace by moonlight. A marquee in centre of stage with throne. Miss Fitton moves about in garden_, L., _as if looking for something till Shakespeare enters_, L.

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Taking both her hands._] At last! at last, I see and hold you, [_Holding both her hands to his heart._] and all is well again; the pain is gone.

MISS FITTON:

Pain?

SHAKESPEARE:

Intense pain—the misery of doubt and fear; the agony of disappointment—all vanished now, lost in a sea of pure delight. Ah, what a life ecstatic after death——

MISS FITTON:

Death!

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Gravely._] Worse. On Monday you were to be at Lady Rutland’s; you had promised; I went; you were not there; I fell into the abysm of despair. Why, my queen, why?

MISS FITTON:

[_Smiling and seating herself._] “Affairs of state” would sound well for a queen; but I prefer the truth. [_Solemnly._] A three-piled ruff, the newest thing in neckgear, made me forget your coming. You see your queen is very woman. [_He kisses her hand and she pushes his head up gently._] One of Eve’s unnumbered daughters.

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Kneeling._] The wittiest of all, the most adored, the fairest! Your hand [_lifting it in his_] is warm ivory, so firm and smooth [_looks up at her_]—the eyes like wells o’erhung with shadow—and oh, the rubious lips. [_Puts up his hand and draws down her head; she bends and kisses him; then rises._]

MISS FITTON:

You must rise; we might be seen: we have only half an hour; be careful; someone might come.

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Rising._] What a fate is mine! I see you but for a moment and then lose you. It is a week since we met and now I may not kiss you. I long for you night and day; my flesh aches for you; I am parched with fever and may not quench my thirst.

MISS FITTON:

Those high fevers have no long continuance; I prefer enduring affection—tenderness——

SHAKESPEARE:

Still the fever and you will find the tenderness. Each time I meet you I have to win you anew, and that exasperates desire; but give yourself freely to me, and I will love you better than you love yourself.

MISS FITTON:

Violent desire soon burns itself out.

SHAKESPEARE:

When I am burnt out and dead—not before. Do not distrust desire, sweet; ’tis the spring of life, the wing that lifts the clay [_Takes her in his arms and kisses her. She draws herself free._]

SHAKESPEARE:

Again you move away.

MISS FITTON:

Men and women love differently, I think. You would kiss and kiss while I draw back half shrinking, half because I would taste this new joy sweet by sweet. There! You make me say too much.

SHAKESPEARE:

Never too much, you great heart! You unveil your soul, and the beauty of it fills me with reverence. [_Takes her in his arms._]

MISS FITTON:

You do love me, then? You are sure?

SHAKESPEARE:

Very sure.

MISS FITTON:

You will love me always?

SHAKESPEARE:

Always. I loved you before we met, always, through dateless ages. I never loved before, shall never love again. You were made for me. I love your courage, truth, pride, and most of all I love you when you yield. [_They kiss._]

MISS FITTON:

Ah, love is easy when one can trust. I must tell you something, though I hate to: I’m very jealous.

SHAKESPEARE:

You, jealous!

MISS FITTON:

[_Nods her head._] Jane Wroth told us of the dance at the Globe Theatre, and I was angry; that’s why I did not go to Lady Rutland’s to meet you. I was jealous, mad!

SHAKESPEARE:

You had no reason. I was not at the dance. I came past you here and wandered in Chelsea meadows.

MISS FITTON:

In truth? How strange!

SHAKESPEARE:

I have always loved to be alone. In unfrequented woods I used to build myself a world of dreams and hold a court of fancied creatures. But now the dreams have changed to memories; you come to me and I recall your words and looks and beauties; kiss your hands and eyes and lips. Oh, my thought-world is paradise with you as goddess-queen.

MISS FITTON:

You must never make me jealous. Heal that at once as you would heal a pain of mine. It makes some women love more, I think; it would kill all love in me. I am too proud to endure its sting.

SHAKESPEARE:

I will never give you cause, sweet, for jealousy, never! I love your pride too well.

MISS FITTON:

[_Rising and going to the spinet._] You promised me a song. Did you forget?

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Following her._] Could I forget a promise to you! [_He puts the roll on the spinet before her._]

MISS FITTON:

I cannot sing it, you know. I have none of women’s little graces.

SHAKESPEARE:

Being grace itself, you can forego graces. But I have Hughes without, if you will hear him.

MISS FITTON:

Willingly; but he must not stay long. [_While Shakespeare goes away_, L., _she reads the words aloud._] “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.”

[_Shakespeare returns with Hughes, who bows to Miss Fitton. Miss Fitton nods negligently, and leaves the spinet, taking a seat_, L.C. _Shakespeare stands at her side, facing the audience, while Hughes sings._]

HUGHES [_Sings._)

“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain;
No more now, no more now, fond heart, with
pride should we swell,
Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raise
forces enough to rebel.

“I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”

MISS FITTON:

[_After the first verse._] So you would rebel if you could. Hm. [_Nods her head._]

SHAKESPEARE:

Like all rebels in order to taste the sweets of sovereignty.

HUGHES [SINGS THE SECOND VERSE.]

“For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate,
To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin,
And love those that hate.
I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain,
Since I am myself, my own fever,
Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.”

[_As Hughes finishes Miss Fitton rises. Hughes, bowing, goes out._]

MISS FITTON:

[_Seats herself at the spinet._] Why did you write that—“to make us seek ruin and love those that hate”?

SHAKESPEARE

I fear you don’t love me as I love you; sometimes, even——

MISS FITTON:

I don’t hate you, or I shouldn’t be here, should I?

[_Hums the words, “fever and pain,” playing the tune._]

SHAKESPEARE:

How I envy even the dead things about you; the dress your body warms, the bracelets that clip your wrists; even the jacks that leap to kiss the tender inward of your hand.

MISS FITTON:

[_Stops, and holds it to him._] You may kiss it, too.

[_He kisses her palm, then draws her to him and kisses her lips. She rises._] But now you must go: they’ll be coming.

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Rising._] And when am I to see you again—when? [_Watching her face._] To-day? [_She shakes her head._] To-morrow? Next day? When? These hours of absence make me hunger for you till I faint. Be pitiful, sweet. The touch of your hand gives me life. When you go, my heart shrinks and lies here aching-cold till I see you again.

MISS FITTON:

[_Listening._] I’m afraid they’ll come in and——

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Imploringly._] You have not told me when I may see you again.

MISS FITTON:

To-morrow I’m busy. Thursday? Yes, Thursday, at Lady Rutland’s. She’ll be in waiting here.

[_Gives her hand, which Shakespeare holds against his heart._]

SHAKESPEARE:

[_Taking out some tables in ivory._] I’ve brought you tables to mark our meetings in. Will you use them?

MISS FITTON:

How pretty, and here’s a posy too in golden letters:

[_Reads._]

“Doubt that the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”

That’s because I doubted your sudden-deep affection.

SHAKESPEARE:

Write down the day we are to meet, will you? now; and all the time between shall die and be a void.

MISS FITTON:

[_Archly._] Suppose I said to-night—here?

SHAKESPEARE:

What wine of life you pour! My blood’s aflame and shaken into blinding colours. To-night and night is here! I feel the minutes throbbing past. To-night, my night of nights. O Sweet, make me atone this ecstasy, or—To-night, you Queen of Night—You heart of joy!

MISS FITTON:

I shall be late, you know. It will be midnight——

SHAKESPEARE:

Midnight!

MISS FITTON:

[_Listening._] Hush.

SHAKESPEARE:

To-night, at mid of night. Ah, now I know that men are richer than the gods. Midnight!

MISS FITTON:

Hark! They are coming! Quick! [_Shakespeare kisses her hand and hurries up the stage_, L. _A bevy of girls enter_, C., _talking, accompanied by gallants and preceded by Lacy._]

SCENE IV.

LACY:

[_As Shakespeare passes._] Ho, Ho! Master Shakespeare doth fly from yon miracle of Nature, as from a dire portent. Methought her most brave strain of wit, and peremptory grace, would have charmed your nice fastidity.

SHAKESPEARE:

One may admire stars, my lord, at a distance.

LACY:

Do we adorate because of the distance? Ha! Ha! [_Bows with gesture. Shakespeare bows and goes out. Lacy turns to Miss Fitton._] So the Queen of gipsies has enslaved the player-poet, and violet eyes will lose their blue with weeping.

MISS FITTON:

Violet eyes?

LACY:

Violet eyes and honey-coloured hair—a nymph of the morning!

MISS FITTON:

Whom are you talking about?

LACY:

Is it a secret? The dark lady, then, has her rival in the fair maid, and courage and wit on the one side contend with downcast eyes and shrinking modesty on the other.

MISS FITTON:

Do you jest, or am I to believe you? Who is she—a lady?

LACY:

Her name—Violet. Her rank—youth and beauty. I know no more; put the culprit to the question.

MISS FITTON:

Where did you see them?—When?

LACY:

At the playhouse, one afternoon.

MISS FITTON:

Ha, ha! Now, if I had believed a man’s oaths how I should hate myself. But, thank Heaven! I was not befooled by his vows and protestations. The player may go to his trull, some orange-girl, I suppose, and brag; but, thank God! I am not his dupe. Violet, indeed! [_Laughs._]

LACY:

Do not be hasty-rash: I know nothing; she may be but his friend and genteelly propagated: I only saw them together once.

MISS FITTON:

You would have me a credulous fool: a laughing-stock for the player and his patch. No, no! I am schooled in time. Who stoops, suffers: the man who would win me, must have no Violet.

LACY:

It is nobler to trust too much than too little.

MISS FITTON:

I do wrong to be angry. Let us join the others, my lord, and take my thanks for your warning. [_Walking towards the others._] Violet is a pretty name!

SCENE V.

HERBERT:

[_Enters; the ladies flock together and giggle; he goes to them._] Well, Lady Cynthia, what’s the story?

LADY CYNTHIA:

Story?

HERBERT:

The story that made you all laugh as I came in.

LADY CYNTHIA:

There was no story.

HERBERT:

It was truth, you mean. [_Lady Cynthia curtsies._] Something pointed at me. What was it?

LADY CYNTHIA:

Why should you think it was about you?

HERBERT:

What was it, then? You silly girl, if you don’t tell, the others will.

LADY CYNTHIA:

[_Turning to them in appeal._] You won’t, will you, girls?

MISS FITTON:

Of course they will; women always tell of each other, so I’ll save them the trouble. Lady Cynthia said, she’d rather be the Queen you knelt to, than the Captain you struck.

LADY CYNTHIA:

Oh, I didn’t, I didn’t. I’ll never forgive you, Mary Fitton, never!

MISS FITTON:

Well, if you didn’t say it, I do, so protest’s useless.

HERBERT:

And would you be the Queen, lady?

MISS FITTON:

Perhaps; for women can win, though conquered.

HERBERT:

Then conquest does not frighten you?

MISS FITTON:

Nothing frightens us but indifference. We women are fortresses, only sure of our valour when we’re attacked: only convinced of our strength when we’re taken, and as proud of being won as men are of winning.

HERBERT:

If the fortress is as strong as your tongue is sharp, ’Twould need a Paladin to attempt it.

MISS FITTON:

Only cowards fear the strength of their opposites, and you, my lord, are no coward.

HERBERT:

[_Laughing, as if flattered._] How do you know that, lady?

MISS FITTON:

By double proof, my lord.

HERBERT:

Double proof?

MISS FITTON:

Yes: you strike a Captain of thirty, and kiss a Queen of sixty. Give you good e’en, my lord!

[_Curtsies, and turns to go._]

HERBERT:

You shan’t escape like that! [_Catches her by the waist._] You must pay for your impertinence. Come, give me your lips, beauty.

MISS FITTON:

[_Holding her head away._] That were to turn play into earnest.

HERBERT:

So much the better. [_Their eyes meet._] I can be earnest, too. [_He kisses her; she draws away._]

LACY:

If I intrude, I flex the knee: I’m sage-green with jealousy; or shall I scent the lambent air with flowered gratulation?

HERBERT:

[_Irritably._] I wish you’d talk naturally, like a man, and not like a popinjay.

LACY:

In verity I belong to the brutish, bearded sex, as you may prove, my lord, when the occasion pleases you. [_Bows to Herbert._] But “naturally” offends my sense, ’tis a gross and vulgar birth. Prithee, my lord, do you dress “naturally”? or eat “naturally”? or house “naturally”? And if to be natural in all these is savage-vile, why should a man talk “naturally,” like a lewd barbarian?

HERBERT:

I mean why be singular in speech—fanciful, peculiar?

LACY:

The first man who made a girdle of skins instead of the fig-leaf was so admonished, and with equal consistency. Why wear a slashed doublet, my lord—most “fanciful-peculiar”?

HERBERT:

It becomes my place.

LACY:

And so my speech is more ornate than peasants use.

HERBERT:

But my doublet isn’t tagged with silly, useless ornaments, like your “scent the air,” and “sage-green with jealousy”! Green is good enough.

LACY:

Green means nothing; but sage-green paints the bilious tinge of soured vanity; still, a dispute about the shade concedes the principle.

HERBERT:

No, I think the common speech better, stronger.

LACY:

No! No! Ten thousand negatives! I abhor your common fustian speech. Words, like coins, grow lighter in the using; so I mint a new word to charm the ear, as a jeweller sets a gem to catch the eye. [_Turning to Miss Fitton._] But I’ve tired you, most divine fair, with peevish argument, instead of pleasing with example. I entreat forgiveness: am carmined with confusion. [_A bevy of girls come up: the first cries_—] “We are allowed to dance”: [_the second_—] “How shall we begin, with the galliard or the Coranto?” [_They speak chiefly to Lord Herbert and Mistress Fitton, because Lord Lacy is staring at one of their number, Lady Joan Nevil. Lacy, turning again to Herbert._] What heavenly pulchritude! casting light, not shadow, upon earth. Who is the wonder, nymph or angel? My eyes are blinded by her celestial radiance.

HERBERT:

[_Stepping forward._] Lady Joan, let me present Lord Lacy here, who professes himself your admirer.

LACY:

[_Bowing to the ground._] Admirer [_with a reproachful glance at Herbert_], worshipper of your most angelic loveliness! Lady, my senses are all your slaves.

LADY JOAN:

I free them at once, my lord. I would not slavish service.

LACY:

O voice most tuneful and beyond music harmonious!

LADY JOAN:

Praise, my lord, should keep a measure; sweets are quick to surfeit.

LACY:

Lady, if I cannot win your favour, I am like to die of grief.

LADY JOAN:

Live, my lord, live, and now if it please you let us join the dancers. [_They turn off together; the dancing goes on with directions changing the galliard to the Coranto._]

MISS FITTON:

[_Looking after Lacy._] A curious jay.

HERBERT:

A soldier, scholar, traveller, all masked with this extravagance.

MISS FITTON:

Lady Joan may cure his distemper.

HERBERT:

Perhaps; but why did you refuse my kiss? Am I so hateful to you?

MISS FITTON:

No, no.

HERBERT:

Why then withhold so small and usual a favour?

MISS FITTON:

One sometimes fears to give—not from penury; but——

HERBERT:

You dear! How did you know I love you?

MISS FITTON:

I do not know it, my lord. Shall we dance?

[_They pass, and Sir John Stanley and Lady Jane Wroth come in their turn to the centre._]

STANLEY:

What do you women see in him? He’s impudent; but good-looking boys are always impudent. I could forgive the Queen for loving Essex; he’s a man, a great Captain, too; but this raw Herbert—pshaw!

LADY JANE WROTH:

Perhaps it’s his youth pleases her, Sir John. And then he’s marvellous well-featured. [_They pass, Lacy and Lady Joan, after a couple or two pass, return to_ C.]

LACY:

[_Earnestly._] My speech, lady, shall follow your taste, like my dress. If you prefer plain cloth to murreyed sarsenet, it shall be as you wish, I will speak poor drab. But taffeta phrases have a rich distinction, and silken terms are soothing to the sense.

LADY JOAN:

I would not have you altered, the gay doublet suits you: the fanciful speech, too. But just a touch of—austerity in ornament—is that how you speak?

LACY:

Rosebud of maidens, you delight my heart!

[_They pass. Lady Cynthia Darrel and a Courtier come to the front._]

LADY CYNTHIA:

Do you think Mistress Fitton good-looking?

A COURTIER:

Good-looking, yes; but swarthy.

LADY CYNTHIA:

Too tall for my taste, and bold. Ha! Ha! If that’s your country innocence, I prefer the town. Those black eyes in that pale face—ugh! Now Herbert is a model, perfect.

A COURTIER:

He’s very well, and he knows it. [_They pass. Slowly Lord Herbert and Miss Fitton return. The Mistress of Ceremonies orders the cushion dance: the pages arrange the cushions._]

MISS FITTON:

I know you don’t; too well I know it.

HERBERT:

I swear I do; put me to the proof.

MISS FITTON:

What’s the good?

HERBERT:

All the good; you’ll have the proof, and be convinced, and yield. Try me.

MISS FITTON:

[_They dance: at the end of the bar, Herbert kneels on a cushion._] How easy it is to gull oneself when one wishes to. If the Queen entered now, my lord, you’d be at her feet in an instant.

HERBERT:

Not I. Not if you promised to come to me: Will you? [_Miss Fitton kisses his forehead._]

MISS FITTON:

Do you mean you would stay by me even if she called you?

HERBERT:

Even if she called, if you promise.

MISS FITTON:

You would not dare.

HERBERT:

Dare! indeed; wouldn’t I! [_They dance round, and when their turn comes to kiss, Miss Fitton gives her lips. Immediately afterwards the doors are thrown open and the Queen announced_, R. _Some servants enter backwards; then the Queen moves to throne_, R. C. _The dancers stop; all bow and curtsey._]

SCENE VI.

THE QUEEN:

Let the dance go on! [_The Queen looks round; Herbert and Miss Fitton are standing_ L.C. _The Queen calls_ “Lord Herbert.” _Herbert goes on talking to Miss Fitton as if he did not hear._]

MISS FITTON:

[_In a loud whisper._] Go, the Queen calls, go.

LORD HERBERT.

[_To Miss Fitton._] But will you promise?

THE QUEEN:

Lord Herbert!

MISS FITTON:

Go, I’ll forgive you, go.

HERBERT:

But will you promise?

THE QUEEN:

[_Turning to a Servant._] Send Lord Herbert to me.

MISS FITTON:

[_As the servant nears the couple._] Yes, I promise—sometime—go! [_Herbert, bowing low to Miss Fitton, swings round, walks to the Queen, and puts one knee to the ground._]

THE QUEEN:

[_Angrily._] You forget your manners, my lord, and your duty.

HERBERT:

[_Smiling._] Manners, ma’am, and duty are worthless frozen words: my allegiance to you is an irresistible passion; as, you know, the desire of the moth for the light.

THE QUEEN:

Methinks, the moth is quite content with blackness, here. [_With a glance at Miss Fitton._]

HERBERT:

The eyes that suffer through excess of radiance close of themselves to rest.

THE QUEEN:

[_As if pacified or negligent._] You may dance, my lord. [_Amid the astonished silence and observation of all, Herbert bows and draws backward towards Miss Fitton._] Go on with the dance. The Coranto, not that kissing thing. [_The Pages remove the cushions._]

LADY JANE WROTH:

[_To Sir John Stanley._] She hates to see _others_ kissing.

STANLEY:

That’s morality. [_The talk breaks out again, and the dance goes on. In a moment or so Herbert is at Miss Fitton’s side, and they dance round._]

THE QUEEN:

[_As they pass, calls_] Lord Herbert! [_He dances on as if he didn’t hear. The Queen descends from_ _her throne, and takes him by the ear._] Are you deaf to-night? I will dance with you. [_Lord Herbert bows, smiling, and they dance a measure or two; the Queen holds up her dress very high and marks each step elaborately in bygone fashion: when they come to_ C.]

HERBERT:

I knew I’d win you.

THE QUEEN:

Win me?

HERBERT:

And now I have succeeded.

THE QUEEN:

What do you mean?

HERBERT:

Jealousy is the best proof of love.

THE QUEEN:

You saucy boy! [_They dance to the entrance_, R. _He holds the cloth, and the Queen passes through. As the cloth falls, Herbert turns and hastens back to Miss Fitton, who moves to meet him: the others are dispersing; the servants begin to dismantle the tent._]

HERBERT:

Did I keep my word?

MISS FITTON:

How bold you are!

HERBERT:

And you—beautiful. Remember! you promised.

MISS FITTON:

[_Hesitates, then looking at him nods as if reflecting._] I did promise.

HERBERT:

Come, then.

MISS FITTON:

Oh no; not to-night. To-night I must—I could not. I could not. It is so late. I said “sometime.”

HERBERT:

You are too proud to cheat. I have your word. Come: it’ll soon be midnight.

MISS FITTON:

Midnight!

HERBERT:

Yes, midnight. What of that?

MISS FITTON:

Nothing: nothing——

HERBERT:

Come, then. You are not afraid of the dark with me.

[_While speaking he puts his arm round her, kisses her and draws her towards entrance_, C. _There he takes cloaks; wraps her in one and puts the other on. They go. The stage darkens. A servant comes in, takes up something and goes away. The stage darkens; stars appear. Midnight sounds from some neighbouring clock. On the first stroke Shakespeare enters from_ L., _moves to trysting-place and waits. No one comes. In the distance faintly he hears his own song growing clearer as if the singer were passing by: “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.” He moves about restlessly while the song dies away._]

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