Anonymous Page #4

My God.

You're...

writing again.

After you promised.

Anne, you should have

seen them, the mob.

They didn't sit there

like the reptilia of court,

faces motionless,

fangs momentarily retracted.

No! They climbed the stage!

They fought the French!

Stop it! Stop this at once!

Why must you write?

Why must you continue

to humiliate my family?

The voices, Anne.

The voices, I can't stop them.

They come to me.

When I sleep, when I wake, when

I sup. When I walk down the hall.

The sweet longings of a maiden,

the surging ambitions of a courtier,

the designs of a murderer,

the pleas of his victims.

Only when I put their words,

their voices, to parchment

are they cast loose, freed.

Only then is my mind quieted.

At peace.

I would go mad

if I didn't write down the voices.

Are you possessed?

Maybe I am.

This is incredible, Ben.

The whole bloody thing

in verse.

It's really not that difficult

if you try.

Oh, and have you ever tried?

Ahh. But soft!

What light through

yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

I'll have little trouble

parting the legs of barmaids.

You cannot play Romeo.

What? Why not?

I'm perfect for the role.

I will not let that oaf Spencer

have another go at one of my roles.

Only Will Shakespeare can pump

the life into Romeo's veins.

And his codpiece.

No, Ben.

Ben, I'm an actor.

Every inch of me,

right down to my very toes.

I want to...

No, I crave to act.

So bloody well act like a writer.

And, for God's sake,

keep off the stage.

Writers do not have time to act.

What lady's that, which

doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?

I know not, sir.

O, she doth teach the torches

to burn bright.

It seems she hangs upon

the cheek of night,

like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear.

Beauty too rich for use,

for earth too dear.

So shows a snowy dove

trooping with crows,

as yonder lady

o'er her fellows shows.

The measure done,

I'll watch her place of stand,

and, touching hers,

make blessed my rude hand.

Hmph.

Did my heart love till now?

Forswear it, sight!

For I ne'er saw true beauty

till this night.

My Lord of Oxford.

- That's the Earl of Oxford.

- Majesty.

Yes, and doesn't he look handsome?

Most definitely.

We very much liked

your play tonight.

Your young King Henry

reminded us of you.

Did he?

Brash, yet brave.

A boy and yet a man.

Fair on the eyes.

Fairer to the ear.

We are glad of your return

from the continent.

Two years is too long without

such excellent amusements.

Had I known my absence would have

caused Your Grace so much longing,

I would have returned

much, much sooner.

Your wife must be pleased to have

you once more present at her side.

It is but a small comfort to me.

I am returned only under

my father-in-law's insistence.

Cecil told me your match

was one of love.

So he would wish.

But how could one love the moon

after having seen the sun?

Which country did you like

the best on your travels, my lord?

Italy, Your Grace.

Hmm. Italy. And why is that?

The weather? Or the food?

No, no. Their theater,

which they call

la comedia dell'arte.

And, of course,

the women.

The women?

They were more, uh, clear...

with their desires. When they

want something, they take it.

They do not wait to be taken.

I can't decide.

Are you Prince Hal?

Or Romeo?

No.

No.

You're Puck.

Puck?

Yes, Puck

Puck would never fight for you

in the Netherlands.

The Netherlands?

Well, why not?

It's an open secret you support

the rebels against Spain.

You are commissioning Englishmen

to help fight their cause.

Spain's loss is England's gain.

Is this why you bedded me?

For a commission?

No, no, it's just...

Leave me.

How dare you? How dare you?

I command you to leave my presence!

O mistress mine,

where are you roaming?

O, stay,

and hear,

your true love's coming.

That can kiss,

both high,

and low.

No further, pretty sweeting.

Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

every wise man's son doth know.

What is love?

'Tis not hereafter.

Present mirth hath present laughter.

What's to come is still unsure:

In delay there lies no plenty.

Then come,

kiss me.

Sweet and twenty.

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

You will stay in England,

and in my chambers.

I could do it if I wanted to.

Do what?

A play in bic... In bia...

In iambic pentameter.

It's not that hard.

Think so?

Have you ever tried?

Of course not.

But I could if I wanted.

Well, it wasn't all in verse.

Ah. You see?

Even easier.

Henslowe wants Romeo

to run for a fortnight. A fortnight!

Innkeeper! Drinks for everybody!

Innkeeper! Billy!

A fortnight?

The maids love

the romantic tragedies.

Precisely why I avoid them.

Oh, well, worry not. A one-trick pony.

He'll never do it again.

How have

you made division of yourself?

An apple, cleft in twain

is not more twin than these

two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Most wonderful!

Great Caesar...

Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?

Speak, hands for me!

Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar.

Tyranny is dead!

Freedom, liberty,

and enfranchisement!

- Death to tyranny!

- Freedom!

Yes! Freedom! Freedom!

Liberty!

- He was Scottish, wasn't he?

- Yeah.

Round about the cauldron go.

In the poison'd entrails throw.

Toad, that under cold stone,

days and nights has thirty-one.

Double, double, toil and trouble.

Fire burn!

Beware

of entrance to a quarrel,

but being in,

bear't that the opposed

may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear,

but few thy voice.

Take each man's censure,

but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit

as thy purse can buy,

but not express'd in fancy:

Rich, not gaudy.

For the apparel

oft proclaims the man.

Come, come, and sit you down.

You shall not budge!

You go not till I set you up a glass

where you may see

the inmost part of you.

What wilt thou do?

Thou wilt not murder me?

HelP, help, ho!

What, ho! Help!

How now! A rat?

Dead, for a ducat, dead!

- Ah!

- Oh!

I am slain!

O me, what hast thou done?

Nay, I know not. Is it the king?

Thou wretched, rash,

intruding fool, farewell!

Not a day too soon for Cecil!

To be, or not to be,

that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind

to suffer,

the slings and arrows

of outrageous fortune,

or to take arms against

a sea of troubles,

and by opposing end them.

to sleep, no more,

and by a sleep to say we end

the heart-ache,

and the thousand natural shocks

that flesh is heir to.

'Tis a consummation,

devoutly to be wished.

To die, to sleep,

Ay, there's the rub.

For in that sleep of death

what dreams may come,

when we have shuffled off

this mortal coil, must give us pause.

There's the respect

that makes calamity of so long life.

Ah!

- Give it good heat.

- This hot enough?

You're certain of this?

William Cecil was murdered.

Not literally, of course.

He was a character.

Fictional character.

But the metaphor was clear

for anyone to see. And see, they did.

Will you shut it down?

Your service to his lordship

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