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 een 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!