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._]