Shakespeare. Hark! A sigh!
Mary. The wind Keening the night—
Shakespeare. A sound of weeping—
Mary. Rain. Is this a time for visions? White-cheeked day Stares through the pane. Each minute is an eye Opening upon us. What shall we do now?
Shakespeare. Weep, clamorous harlot! We have given him death, And shall we dock his rights of death, his peace Upon his bed, his sun of hair smoothed, hands Crossed decently by me, his friend? Close you His eyes with kisses, lest I kill you too! Give him his due, I say! his woman’s tears! You were his woman—oh, deny it not! You were his woman. Pay him what you owe!
Mary. What? Do you glove my clean hand with your stain, Red fingers? Soft! This is your kill, not mine! My free soul is not sticky with your sins. You pinch your lips? You singe me with your tongue? Your country lilac that you left for me Taught you strange names for a woman. Harlot? I? Sweep your own stable, trickster, married man! Lie, cheat, break faith, until you end a man That bettered you as roses better weeds—
Shakespeare. That is well known.
Mary. —and now you’ll stare and weep Until the watch comes and the Queen hears all. Then—ends all! And I caught with you! She’s a devil of ice Since Leicester died. No man or woman stirs her; But she must have her toys! London’s her doll’s house, Its marts, its theatres. This death was half her pride, And you the other. Was I not set to mould you? What will she do to me now her doll’s broken, Broken in my hand? I fear her, oh, I fear her, The green eyes of her justice and her smile. Will, if you love me—you who have had my lips, And more, and more, and shall have all again, All that you choose, and gladly given—awake! Fly while there’s time to save yourself and me! Look not on him—he’s blind—he cannot speak, Nor stretch a hand to stay you—he’s cold nothing! But we, we live! Here on my throat, here, here, (Give me your fingers!) feel the hot pulse live! Yet I’ll die sooner than be pent. You know me! Must I lie still for ever at his side Because you will not rouse yourself?
Shakespeare. Who speaks? O vanished dew, O summer sweetness gone, O perfume staled in a night, that yesterday Was fresh as morning roses—do you live? Are you still Mary? O my shining lamp Of love put out, how dark the world has grown! Did you want him so? Did it come on you suddenly, And shake you from your north—
Mary. The dawn! the dawn!