Short Plays

is but four words. Are you a snapper-up of such unconsidered trifles? The Man Eagerly. Snapper-up of⁠—He gasps. Oh! Immortal phrase! He writes it down. This man is a greater than I. The Beefeater You have my lord Pembroke’s trick, sir. The Man Like enough: he is my near friend. But what call you his trick? The Beefeater Making sonnets by moonlight. And to the same lady too. The Man No! The Beefeater Last night he stood here on your errand, and in your shoes. The Man Thou, too, Brutus! And I called him friend! The Beefeater ’Tis ever so, sir. The Man ’Tis ever so. ’Twas ever so. He turns away, overcome. Two Gentlemen of Verona! Judas! Judas!! The Beefeater Is he so bad as that, sir? The Man Recovering his charity and self-possession. Bad? Oh no. Human, Master Warder, human. We call one another names when we are offended, as children do. That is all. The Beefeater Ay, sir: words, words, words. Mere wind, sir. We fill our bellies with the east wind, sir, as the Scripture hath it. You cannot feed capons so. The Man A good cadence. By your leave. He makes a note of it. The Beefeater What manner of thing is a cadence, sir? I have not heard of it. The Man A thing to rule the world with, friend. The Beefeater You speak strangely, sir: no offence. But, an’t like you, you are a very civil gentleman; and a poor man feels drawn to you, you being, as ’twere, willing to share your thought with him. The Man ’Tis my trade. But alas! the world for the most part will none of my thoughts. Lamplight streams from the palace door as it opens from within. The Beefeater Here comes your lady, sir. I’ll to t’other end of my ward. You may e’en take your time about your business: I shall not return too suddenly unless my sergeant comes prowling round. ’Tis a fell sergeant, sir: strict in his arrest. Go’d’en, sir; and good luck! He goes. The Man “Strict in his arrest”! “Fell sergeant”! As if tasting a ripe plum. O‑o‑o‑h! He makes a note of them. A Cloaked Lady gropes her way from the palace and wanders along the terrace, walking in her sleep. The Lady Rubbing her hands as if washing them. Out, damned spot. You will mar all with these cosmetics. God made you one face; and you make yourself another. Think of your grave, woman, not ever of being beautified. All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this Tudor hand. The Man “All the perfumes of Arabia”! “Beautified”! “Beautified”! a poem in a single word. Can this be my Mary? To the Lady. Why do you speak in a strange voice, and utter poetry for the first time? Are you ailing? You walk like the dead. Mary! Mary! The Lady Echoing him. Mary! Mary! Who would have thought that woman to have had so much blood in her! Is it my fault that my counsellors put deeds of blood on me? Fie! If you were women you would have more wit than to stain the floor so foully. Hold not up her head so: the hair is false. I tell you yet again, Mary’s buried: she cannot come out of her grave. I fear her not: these cats that dare jump into thrones though they be fit only for men’s laps must be put away. What’s done cannot be undone. Out, I say. Fie! a queen, and freckled! The Man Shaking her arm. Mary, I say: art asleep? The Lady wakes; starts; and nearly faints. He catches her on his arm. The Lady Where am I? What art thou? The Man I cry your mercy. I have mistook your person all this while. Methought you were my Mary: my mistress. The Lady Outraged. Profane fellow: how do you dare? The Man Be not wroth with me, lady. My mistress is a marvellous proper woman. But she does not speak so well as you. “All the perfumes of Arabia”! That was well said: spoken with good accent and excellent discretion. The Lady Have I been in speech with you here? The Man Why, yes, fair lady. Have you forgot it? The Lady I have walked in my sleep. The Man Walk ever in your sleep, fair one; for then your words drop like honey. The Lady With cold majesty. Know you to whom you speak, sir, that you dare express yourself so saucily? The Man Unabashed. Not I, nor care neither. You are some lady of the Court, belike. To me there are but two sorts of women: those with excellent voices, sweet and low, and cackling hens that cannot make me dream. Your voice has all manner of loveliness in it. Grudge me not a short hour of its music. The Lady Sir: you are overbold. Season your admiration for a while with⁠— The Man Holding up his hand to stop her. “Season your admiration for a while⁠—” The Lady Fellow: do you dare mimic me to my face? The Man ’Tis music. Can you not hear? When a good musician sings a song, do you not sing it and sing it again till you have caught and fixed its perfect melody? “Season your admiration for a while”: God! the history of man’s heart is in that one word admiration. Admiration! Taking up his tablets. What was it? “Suspend your admiration for a space⁠—” The Lady A very vile jingle of esses. I said “Season your⁠—” The Man Hastily. Season: ay, season, season, season. Plague on my memory, my wretched memory! I must e’en write it down. He begins to write, but stops, his memory failing him. Yet tell me which was the vile jingle? You said very justly: mine own ear caught it even as my false tongue said it. The Lady You said “for a space.” I said “for a while.” The Man “For a while.” He corrects it. Good! Ardently. And now be mine neither for a space nor a