Shakespeare and His Love: A Play in Four Acts and an Epilogue

The tiring-room behind the stage of the Globe theatre after a performance of “The Merchant of Venice.”

[As the curtain goes up an attendant is discovered listening at door L. There is a noise to be heard as of persons leaving the theatre: as the door is thrown open the attendant moves aside. The Earl of Southampton, Lord Lacy, Sir John Stanley, Chapman, Dekker, Marston, Fletcher, John Selden and Burbage enter.]

Sir John Stanley:

[Flinging in.] What a foolish play! And what a spendthrift merchant!

Chapman:

Trivial, I found it. Trivial and silly.

Lacy:

[With graceful gesture.] Most excellent in invention, liberal in conceit. The Jew a gem, a gem, I say—a balass ruby of rich Orient blood!

Dekker:

Pretty, perhaps, but tedious! Tedious—as a rival’s praise, eh, Chapman?

Southampton:

Ah, Master Burbage, you outdid yourself as Shylock. When you sharpened the knife, we all shivered.

Burbage:

I’m much beholden to your lordship.

Fletcher:

[To Lord Lacy] The scene between the lovers in the moonlight was not ill-conceived. That Lorenzo had something of Shakespeare in him.

Lacy:

And Jessica! The name’s a perfume. A flower, Jessica, of most rare depicture, dear to fancy, responsive to a breath!

Dekker:

[Aside to Fletcher.] Has the gull any meaning?

Selden:

His words, Dekker, are like his dress: too choice for ease, too rich for service: but he’s of great place, and friend to Essex.

Fletcher:

[To Southampton.] The end’s weak, and the merchant too much the saint.

Dekker:

Saints are always tiresome unless they’re martyred.

Southampton:

And detractors, unless they’re witty.

Lacy:

[Reproachfully.] A cannon-ball as a retort! Fie, fie, my lord Southampton. A little salve of soft disdain obliterates the sting, and no one shoots at midges.

[Enter Shakespeare, who takes a seat apart.]

Southampton:

[Moving aside, with Lacy, waves his hand to Shakespeare.] Good! good!

Sir John Stanley:

Give me an English play. Why can’t we have a play where we thrash the Spaniards? Curse Venice! What’s Venice to me! [Exit, accompanied by Marston and Dekker; Fletcher and Chapman follow.]

Chettle:

[To Shakespeare.] Did ye hear that?

Shakespeare:

No! What?

Chettle:

The truth, Will—the truth in the mouth of a suckling! They all want an English play and Falstaff. Without him, my lad, the spirit’s out of the sack—all stale and flat.

Shakespeare:

Would you have onions with every dish, Chettle, even with the sweets?

Chettle:

In faith ’tis a seasoning and healthy weed—and provokes thirst, go to! But why can’t you be gay, lad, gay as you used to be and write us another comedy with Falstaff and his atomy page?

Shakespeare:

Laughter and youth go together, Chettle, and I am too old for comedies.

Chettle:

It makes my flesh creep to hear you; but I’ll not be sad: I’ll not think of age and the end, I’ll not—. Ah, lad, you’ll never be popular without Falstaff.

Shakespeare:

And why not?

Chettle:

’Tis his wit pleases the many.

Shakespeare:

Wit!—when wit buys popularity, honesty shall win fortune, and constancy love: the golden days are long past, I fear. [Turns from Chettle, who goes out, taking Burbage and Selden with him.]

Scene III.

Southampton:

The play was excellent.

Lacy:

A carcanet of diverse colours—of absolute favour.

Southampton:

But the playwrights are not your friends.

Shakespeare:

I have befriended most of them.

Lacy:

A double reason for repugnance—ingratitude the point, envy the barb!

Southampton:

[To Shakespeare.] A fine play, Shakespeare, but you seem cast down. Is all well with you in your home?

Shakespeare:

Thanks to you: more than well. My father’s debts all paid; the best house in the village bought for my mother——

Southampton:

Come, then, throw off this melancholy—’tis but a humour.

Lacy:

And let the wit play like lightning against the clouds. Or, better still, exhort him, my lord, to seek a new love; ’tis love that lifts to melody and song, and gives the birds their music.

Southampton:

You are often with Herbert, are you not?

Shakespeare:

Yes.

Southampton:

Don’t build too much on him! You’ll be deceived.

Shakespeare:

To me he’s perfect. In beauty a paragon, in wit unfellow’d.

Southampton:

I would not trust him; he’s selfish.

Lacy:

Most insensitive-hard.

Shakespeare:

[Turns to Lacy.] Youth, youth, my lord! We do not blame the unripe fruit for hardness; a few sunny days will mellow it, and turn the bitter to juicy sweet.

Southampton:

What a friend you are, Shakespeare! You find excuses for everyone.

Lacy:

But those who trust too much are like the rathe flowers, frost-blighted.

Southampton:

Here comes Mistress Violet—we’ll take leave of you. I was telling Shakespeare, lady, how fair you are.

Scene IV.

Violet:

[Curtseying.] I thank you humbly, my lord.

[Exit Southampton and Lacy bowing low.]

Shakespeare:

[Smiling.] At last, Violet.

Violet:

[Moving to him and giving her mouth.] Am I so late? Did I wrong to come?

Shakespeare:

No, no!

Violet:

There was such a crowd I did not dare to come at first, and yet I could not stay away; I could not. I wanted to tell you how wonderful it all was.

Shakespeare:

I am glad it pleased you.

Violet:

“Pleased me!” What poor, cold words. The play was entrancing; but you were the Merchant, were you not? And so sad. Why are you always sad now?

Shakespeare:

I know not. As youth passes we see things as they are, and our high dreams of what might be become impossible.

Violet:

Never impossible, or we could not dream them.

Shakespeare:

I hoped so once; but now I doubt. How golden-fair you are!

Violet:

You are always kind; but it’s not kindness I want. I’d rather you were unkind and jealous. But you are never jealous, never unkind.

Shakespeare:

You’d rather I were jealous—unkind?

Violet:

Much rather. ’Twould prove you care!

Shakespeare:

Why do you shiver?

Violet:

We women feel the winter before it comes, like the birds.

Shakespeare:

Women! You sensitive child.

Violet:

Not a child when I think of you. I used to look at myself and imagine that some day a man would kiss me and play with me and make a toy of me, and I wondered whether I should like it; but I never dreamed that I would ever want to touch a man. But now, I love to be near you; my King, how good it is to be with you. But the winter’s coming. [Shivers.]

Shakespeare:

You must not think that, Violet, nor say it. It’s your love breeds those fears.

Violet:

[Pouting.] Why did you not put me in this play?

Shakespeare:

I did: you know I did. You were Jessica, happy, loving Jessica, and I, Lorenzo, ran away with you and talked of music and the stars by moonlight in front of Portia’s house.

Violet:

How kind you are! What a pity you don’t love me! But then love is always one-sided, they say. Ah, some day—— Who’s Portia?

Shakespeare:

Portia?

Violet:

[Rouses herself.] Yes, Portia. Who were you thinking of when you described Portia? She’s one of your new friends, I suppose, one of the great Court ladies. H’m! They’re no better than we are. Some of them were at the play but now talking with Kempe, the clown. Ladies, indeed! trulls would behave better.

Shakespeare:

My gentle Violet, in a rage.

Violet:

Oh, they make me angry. Why can’t they be noble? I mean pure and sweet and gentle, instead of laughing loud and using coarse words like those women did to-day. Was Portia one of them?

Shakespeare:

No, Violet, no. I meant Portia to be a great lady. Her carriage and manner I took from someone I once saw at a distance—a passing glance: but the wit and spirit I had no model for, none.

Violet:

You will love one of them, I know. Perhaps, by speaking of it, I put the thought into your head, and bring the danger nearer; but I cannot help it.

Shakespeare:

Love is its torment.

Violet:

Oh, dear, dear! You will not leave me altogether, will you? Even if you love her, you will let me see you sometimes. No one will ever love you as I do. I only love myself because you like me, and when you leave me, I’ll fall out of conceit with my face, and hate it. Hateful face, that could not please my lord.

Shakespeare:

[Puts his hand on her shoulder.] Vain torment! In this frail hooped breast love flutters and bruises herself like a bird in a cage.

Violet:

When you are near, the pain turns to joy.

Shakespeare:

I know; I know, so well. I’m making you the heroine of the new play I told you of—“Twelfth Night”; your name, too, shall be hers, Viola; but now you must go: I hear them coming.

Violet:

Farewell, Farewell. If I could only be a dozen women to please you, so that you might not think of Portia, hateful Portia! [Exit Violet.]

Burbage:

[Entering hurriedly.] Farce and tragedy and escape. A play within a play.

Fletcher:

[Enters just behind him, followed by Dekker, Marston, Chettle and Hughes.] A great scene! The revolt of the groundlings. Didn’t you hear them shouting, Shakespeare?

Shakespeare:

I heard nothing.

Fletcher:

Self-absorbed as ever.

Dekker:

[Sneeringly.] Lost on Parnassus!

Shakespeare:

What was it, Fletcher?

Fletcher:

A scene for Dekker. The orange-girls have been pelting the ladies in their rooms. The ladies gibed at them, and they replied with rotten fruit. The ladies shrieked, and hid themselves; all but one, who stood in front and outfaced the furies—a queen!

Shakespeare:

Are they safe? Where are they now?

Burbage:

The lords Southampton and Lacy are bringing them: here they come.

[Enter three ladies, masked, and Lords Southampton and Lacy, followed by Selden.]

Scene VI.

Lacy:

At length Beauty’s piloted to the safety of the stage. And without straining extolment I proclaim that never did lady [bowing to the tallest] show more innocence of fear, more exornation of composure.

Miss Fitton:

Why should one fear an orange or an angry slut! Is this part of the stage? [Looking round.]

Lacy:

The veritable and singular stage of the renowned Globe, where actors, playwrights, poets fleet the hours with rich discourse and jewelled melodies.

Miss Fitton:

And naughty stories, I’ll be sworn.

Southampton:

If you’ll unhood, ladies, we’ll present new courtiers to you, Princes of this realm. [The ladies hesitate.]

Miss Fitton:

[Stands out and swings back her hood.] That’s soon done! Ouf! [Lets her eyes range.]

Lady Jane Wroth:

’Tis easy for you, Mary, but I’m all in a twitter, and red like a cit’s wife.

Lady Rutland:

Mary’s right: if you’re going into the water you may as well jump in. [Throws back her hood.] But how they stare!

Lacy:

Pray, my lord, officiate.

Southampton:

As Master o’ Ceremonies, then, I make it known to all that Lady Rutland and Lady Jane Wroth, and Mistress Mary Fitton, the youngest and bravest of the Queen’s maids of honour, are new come to the Globe. Ladies, this is Master Burbage, who counterfeits kings with such nobility, and lovers with such reverence, that ladies lend him their lips in either part. And this is gentle Shakespeare, the wittiest of poets, whose sugared verses make all in love with sweets. And this is Master Chettle, playwright and Prince of Laughter. Here, too, is grave young Selden, and Masters Fletcher, Dekker, Marston, the glories of our stage.

Lacy:

And now, gentlemen, with what most cunning art or inviolate mystery will you charm the visiting fair? Thrones, there, thrones, the ladies will sit.

Miss Fitton:

[As they sit down.] But where is Master Kempe, the clown? I want to see him dance. I swear when he takes the floor in the Coranto and mimics dignity, I could die of laughing. He did not come with us! Oh, what a lack: we might have seen him jig.

Lacy:

Shall we seduce your ears with vocal harmonies, fair lady, or chant in the round to lute or viol?

Southampton:

Will you, Shakespeare, sing first? [Shakespeare, as if speechless, with a gesture of the hand, draws back, still gazing at Miss Fitton. Southampton turns to Miss Fitton.] Shall it be a song of love or war?

Miss Fitton:

I prefer fighting or laughing to languishing.

Lady Jane Wroth:

[Affectedly] And I love—women were made for love.

Lady Rutland:

Any song for a single voice.

Marston:

[To Fletcher.] A song, Fletcher!

Fletcher:

Most willingly; here’s a song: but young Hughes must sing it or Selden: my voice is rough.

[Young Hughes takes up the viol, and sings.]

Chettle:

[After the first verse.] And now, ladies, what will ye drink—canary or sack?

Lady Jane Wroth:

I’ll take Charnikoe, I think; the wine of Bourdeaux, you know: ’tis all the fashion now.

Miss Fitton:

I ought to have been born a man and not a girl, for I like sack, it’s strong and sweet!

[Lady Rutland waives off the wine.]

Chettle:

Oh, she’s a rare one; what say you, Will, riggish, eh?

Shakespeare:

[To Chettle.] Hush! Hush!

Miss Fitton:

[Calls Hughes to her.] Here, boy, Lady Jane says you’re pretty and your voice sweet. [Aside.] Prove to her that your lips are as soft as her cheek.

[Hughes kisses Lady Jane Wroth. All laugh.]

Lady Wroth:

[Affectedly.] No, no, I prithee! [She yields to the kiss, and then to Miss Fitton.] I don’t know, Mary, how you dare. At your age I’d have died of shame to speak of lips and cheeks to a man.

Miss Fitton:

But you’d have thought all the more, eh, Jane? And thoughts leap to act without the aid of speech. Have I touched you there? Ha! ha! [Hughes sings another verse.]

[Loud applause. Hughes comes across to Miss Fitton.]

Miss Fitton:

Be bold, boy; be bold always! If I had been a man I’d have kissed every woman that took my fancy, maid or matron. Even when they don’t love you, they’re proud of the tribute. [Hughes bends suddenly, and kisses her on the lips. Disengaging herself.] By my faith, an apt pupil. [Rising.] But I fear we must be going. [To Southampton and Lacy.] We’ll come again, my lords, if we may.

Burbage:

Won’t you look at the other rooms, ladies, before you go? You should see everything!

Miss Fitton:

[Looking at the others.] We shall be late, I fear; but a few minutes——[Ladies follow Burbage.]

Southampton:

Why so silent, Shakespeare? Why would you not sing? You seem lost.

Shakespeare:

Lost in finding Portia——

Southampton:

Portia? What do you mean? Do you come with us?

Shakespeare:

[Shakes his head.] No, No! I’ll wait here.

[Southampton and others exeunt after the ladies: Shakespeare alone.]

Herbert:

[Comes in hastily.] How was the end received? A success—I’m sure.

Shakespeare:

A babel, Herbert, as usual. Not enough clowning, Chettle says, and the general echo him.

Herbert:

The dull clods have no eyes for beauty, no ears for poetry. I had to go before the end; you forgive me? The play was splendid, one line a miracle—“How all the other passions fleet to air”—[putting his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder]—but now I must be off to Court to persuade the old harpy to “order” the performance of the “Merry Wives.” But you’re not listening.

Shakespeare:

Thinking. You might do something else for me at Court.

Herbert:

Anything, at Court or in Hades, ’tis only another name for the same place.

Shakespeare:

There was here but now a Maid-of-Honour, Mistress Mary Fitton; do you know her?

Herbert:

A Maid-of-Honour, here! Alone? [Laughs.]

Shakespeare:

No, Lady Rutland, Sidney’s sister, and Lady Jane Wroth were with her.

Herbert:

She must be new, I don’t know her. Was she dark or fair? Tall or short?

Shakespeare:

Eye to eye with me. Dark as night, and as night mysterious, wonderful.

Herbert:

This at first sight! But what can I do?

Shakespeare:

Speak for me to her. Say what you can: that motley is not my proper wear, that I’m not all an actor lost to shame and dignity, that—but you will find a thousand better words. Had I to plead for you in such a cause, the unsentient and inconstant air should ache for love of you.

Herbert:

I’ll do my best. Had Southampton any news?

Shakespeare:

That Raleigh still inflames the Queen against the Irish.

Herbert:

We’ll make short work of him; he’s staled with use. The Queen laughs at him. I want her to hear your play, and to give you a place with the Lord Chamberlain as Master of the Revels—Judge accredited of plays and players! Leave it to me, my friend! I’ll kiss her lips and praise her legs till she does all we want. Our star is climbing up—up!

Shakespeare:

Your old loving thought for me—but who climbs should go light, and not be burdened with another’s weight.

Herbert:

You’re easily carried! I’ll bring you tidings later, if I encounter with your gipsy—Ha! Ha!—Farewell. [Turns at the door and comes back.] But why should you not plead your own cause?

Shakespeare:

How? Where? This stage is far from Court.

Herbert:

That’s nothing; desire will bridge the broadest river. There’s to be a masque at Court to-morrow afternoon. Come, then, and meet your fair.

Shakespeare:

Without right—or command?

Herbert:

The Lord Chamberlain will send an invitation to any friend of mine: I need not name you.

Shakespeare:

But if by chance it becomes known——

Herbert:

’Twill not be known. Half the guests will be masked; some of the girls, I hear, will be dressed as pages, foresters; I know not what. You will not be noted. Now I must be gone. Farewell, masker, may you have merry hours. [Exit Herbert.]

[Enter, crossing stage from L. to C., the ladies, still accompanied by Southampton, Lacy and Burbage.]

Southampton:

[While the ladies are cloaking at the door.] What think you of our Court ladies, Shakespeare?

Shakespeare:

[Gazing at Mistress Fitton.] What pride and—

Southampton:

You mean the tall, dark girl? Mary Fitton; a rare wench. Do you think her beautiful? Some say she’s too dark.

Shakespeare:

She is all the beauty extant!

The Antechamber at Court. Two girls, dressed as gentleman and page—Mistress Mary Fitton and Lady Cynthia Darrel—are talking together at one end of the room, L. Sir Walter Raleigh as Captain of the Guard is standing by the great door, R.

Herbert:

[Enters, R.C.] Nothing yet, Captain?

Raleigh:

Nothing, my lord.

Herbert:

[Impatiently.] Hum! [Goes on down the room and bows to Miss Fitton.] I’ve not seen you before, lady, and yet I swear I know you.

Lady Cynthia Darrel:

That were difficult; my friend’s new come to Court.

Herbert:

And yet I’d wager it is Mistress Mary Fitton. [Bows to her and half whispers.] And yester even with Lady Rutland—[louder] shall I say where?

Miss Fitton:

You may, my lord; the place is innocent. ’Tis the intent makes guilt.

Herbert:

You were where my friend saw you, and lost his heart. If you found it, guard it well: he’s worthier than his place.

Miss Fitton:

Men only praise what they wish to part with, or think beneath them.

Herbert:

You’re witty, lady!

Miss Fitton:

Wit’s the Christian name for sense, at Court.

Herbert:

May not one praise his friend?

Miss Fitton:

Never to a woman!

Herbert:

Why not?

Miss Fitton:

Who praise the friend, dispraise the woman.

Herbert:

You’re too persuaded to be changed. Lady Cynthia, the Mistress of the Robes has sent me for you; may I give you conduct to her? [To Miss Fitton, bowing.] Would you be seated lady? [Pointing to a seat.] Your page will be returned before you’ve missed her. [Bows low. They go off, R.C.]

Scene IX.

Shakespeare:

[Enters, L., with a mask in his hand, and stops on catching sight of Miss Fitton.] Ah!

Miss Fitton:

[Looking at him over her shoulder.] Oh, the poet! Well, Master Shakespeare, what think you of my dress?

Shakespeare:

Yesterday, lady, you were lovely; to-day, bewitching.

Miss Fitton:

There is more of the man than the woman in me, I think: yet I would this cloak were somewhat longer. [She tries to draw it round her to cover her legs; failing in this she stands up and swings it about her.] There, I am at ease now. Does it set me off?

Shakespeare:

As envious cloud that veils the beauty of Night’s Queen.

Miss Fitton:

[Seating herself and drawing the cloak about her.] I don’t like poetry: it’s not true—sincere. You poets are too much in love with phrases to be honest.

Shakespeare:

When the heart is full we unpack it in song, like the birds.

Miss Fitton:

But when the bird really feels—rage or fear, he shrieks or twitters and forgets his song.

Shakespeare:

He still sings his love.

Miss Fitton:

I’d not give a cross [Snaps her fingers] for love that keeps time. What’s formal and composed’s a pleasure—not a passion. I want prose and truth.

Shakespeare:

Yet they say that men love truth—and women, honeyed flatteries!

Miss Fitton:

[Scornfully.] They say! Men say that; but it is worse than false. No sooner is a man in love than he lies, wheedles, pretends, shows off—for all the world like the peacock in the garden yonder, that sidles round with tail outspread, in stately sweepings. But when we women fall to love, we are too honest to be vain—too fond for make-believe.

Shakespeare:

Those are the signs of love in man, as in woman. But who made you wise, so young?

Miss Fitton:

Mother Eve, I suppose. The greenest girl knows more about love than your graybeard.

Shakespeare:

True.

Miss Fitton:

[Settling herself, and pointing to the seat.] You may liken me to night if it please you. We dark women are out of favour now: red hair is the Queen’s colour, and Beauty’s ensign: bleached locks, even, are preferred to brown or black.

Shakespeare:

[Taking the chair, and leaning towards her.] I must have been born red, then, to love your great dark eyes, and the coils and tresses of your hair.

Miss Fitton:

[Pouting.] Do you believe people must like their opposites in colour and height and——

Shakespeare:

Such a difference is only one strand in the tie; and in a true marriage the mind, I think, is more than the body.

Miss Fitton:

Of course the mind and character have something to do with it—the sauce to the sweet: but the body’s the sweet.

Shakespeare:

When I am with you, I think so too. I cannot reason now, I can only feel. I saw you yesterday for the first time, a few poor minutes; and now you are with me again and time is fleeting. Oh, I want fifty eyes to take in your beauties, fifty ears to catch the music of your voice, fifty hands to touch you, fifty lives to show you how I love——

Miss Fitton:

[Draws up.] Love! love is not so sudden-mad—But hush! [She takes up a mirror to hide her face; Shakespeare masks; a page crosses stage rapidly from L. to R.]

Miss Fitton:

[Putting down the mirror.] And so you love me—madly—in an hour?

Shakespeare:

[Taking off the mask.] Ah, lady, Time is love’s plaything—now he presses years into one look, one touch; and now a moment’s kiss swoons out of count—will you not yield to love’s magic?

Miss Fitton:

I don’t think I love easily. But why do you love me?

Shakespeare:

Your beauty, grace, courage, wit—a thousand reasons; but deeper than all reason and higher is love’s throne.

Miss Fitton:

We have a saying in my country, “quick flame soon cold.”

Shakespeare:

Ah, that’s not true in love; proverbs are never true; they are all made by dullards for the dull, but tell me how shall I win you? Teach me. Like a timid scholar I’ve forgotten all I knew. Will love win love?

Miss Fitton:

Love will keep us when won; I have no philtre for the winning.

Shakespeare:

One thing you must believe: this love is all my life.

Miss Fitton:

I’ll believe it sooner than I confess I do; for I love to hear you say it. A constant lover, you know, touches every woman’s heart.

Shakespeare:

Then I shall win you, sweet!

Miss Fitton:

Perhaps: all women want to love and be loved. Men desire beauty, wealth, power, honours; we want nothing but love, love only: love is our religion. You see the doublet and hose have not changed my disposition. But Lady Cynthia will be here soon—— [Rises.]

Shakespeare:

When am I to see you again and where? I only live for the hope of seeing you, and now I’ve been with you and said nothing—nothing!

Miss Fitton:

Hist! [Moves behind the spinet again: Shakespeare follows. Lady Jane Wroth and Lady Rutland cross stage from L.C. to L.]

Lady Jane Wroth:

Oh, Lord Herbert is wonderful. As he came from the Queen he met me at the door of the antechamber: I stopped to let him pass: he drew me to him and kissed me on the lips. I could not help it. Do you think he means anything?

Lady Rutland:

Not he. Herbert! He means you are a girl and pretty. Take care, Jane; broken hearts come from such kissings.

Lady Jane Wroth:

But why should he want to kiss me if he does not love me?

Lady Rutland:

Men love to kiss, dear, and we kiss because we love—that’s the difference.

Lady Jane Wroth:

I wish I were a man, for I love the kiss, too.

Lady Rutland:

Hush, dear, hush! you must not say that: if you were overheard—[Glances round nervously: they go off L.]

Miss Fitton:

The silly women! [To Shakespeare.] But why do you love so madly? ’Tis not wise.

Shakespeare:

Wisdom and love, sweet, are sworn enemies.

Miss Fitton:

[Rising.] I have many faults: if you knew them all, you might not love me.

Shakespeare:

Faults! you have no faults!

Miss Fitton:

[Gravely.] I’m too tall, and I look twenty-five though I’m only seventeen. Then my nose is not quite straight—do you see? [Holds up her face.] Besides, I’m very proud and hot-tempered—vain! No: I’m not vain, ever.

Shakespeare:

Delightful wretch! [Puts his hands on her shoulders.] Now girlish-gay and now so witty-wise; but always adorable.

Miss Fitton:

[Holding his hands away by the wrists.] I’m very proud, you know, and want the truth always. I’d never forgive you if you deceived me.

Shakespeare:

Who could deceive you? Give me your love and I’ll be true as hand to heart. [She puts her hand on his shoulder: he lays his hand on her outstretched arm and gazes in her eyes.] Your beauty comes upon my soul like music ravishing the sense. How I adore you. [Kneels.] You make me humble: I seem a thing of naught and you a Queen—divine—[She stoops and kisses his forehead; in a sort of exaltation he cries:] Now life begins anew for me; this hour is consecrate——

Miss Fitton:

[Putting her finger to her lips and glancing at the canopy.] You must go and so must I. Hush! Farewell. [Goes off, L.C. Shakespeare looks after her, takes a step as if to follow her, and then goes off hurriedly L.]