Mary. High on my arm—
Elizabeth. Rip up your sleeve and show me! You stand, you stare, you’re white. I think you shake.
Mary. Anger not fear, though you were ten times Queen Of twenty Englands!
Elizabeth. Quiet, and quiet, my girl! This ill-spent night has left you feverish. You are too free for court, Too bruised and touzled for my gentlemen. You shall go home, I think, to heal this bruise, To cleanse your body and soul in country air And banished quiet till I send for you.
Mary. Upon what count?
Elizabeth. On none. But I’ve no time, No room for butter-fingers. Here’s a man slain Upon your lap that England needed. Go! Go, blunted tool! [She touches a bell.]
Mary. Madam! Madam! You wrong me!
Elizabeth. I’ve wronged your betters, Mary, Mary Fitton, As tide wrongs pebble, or as wind wrongs chaff At threshing time. A page enters at the great door on the right. Send Mr. Shakespeare to me!
Mary. This is the justice of the Queen of England!
Elizabeth. My justice.