Shakespeare. A player-king—
Elizabeth. As I a player-queen! I play my part Not ill, not ill. Judge me, my English peer, And witness for me, that I play not ill My part! And if by night, unseen, I weep, Scourging my spirit down the track of the years, Hating the name of Mary, as she said; Yet comes and goes my hour, and comes again, My hour, when I bear England in my breast As God Almighty bears His universe, England moves in me, I for England speak, As I speak now. It is not the shut door, But I, but England, holds you prisoner.
Shakespeare. But to what service, England, and what end?
Elizabeth. I send my ships where never ships have sailed, To break the barriers and make wide the ways For the after world. Send you your ships to the hidden lands of the soul, To break the barriers and make plain the ways Between man and man. Why else were we two born?
Shakespeare. What’s the worth of a play?
Elizabeth. My ships are not so great And ride not like firm islands of dry land As Philip’s do; yet these my cockle-boats Have used the vast world as a village pound, And fished for treasure above the planets’ bed In the drowned palaces where, water-bleached, Atlantis gleams as gleams the skull-white moon, Rolled in the overwhelming tides of time Hither and down the beaches of the sky. Send out your thoughts as I send out my men, To earn a world for England!—paying first The toll of the pioneer. I do not cheat. Here is the bill—reckon it ere you pay!
Shakespeare. Have I not paid?
Elizabeth. Nay, hourly, till you die. I tell you, you shall toss upon your bed Crying “Let me sleep!” as men cry “Let me live!” And sleeping you shall still cry “Mary! Mary!” This will not pass. Think not the sun that wakes The birds in England and the daisy-lawns, Draws up the meadow fog like prayer to heaven, And curls the smoke in cottage chimney stacks, Shall once forget to wake you with a warm And kissing breath! The four walls shall repeat The name upon your lips, and in your heart The name, the one name, like a knife shall turn. These are your dawns. I tell you, I who know. Nor shall day spare you. All your prospering years, The tasteless honours for yourself—not her— The envy in men’s voices, (if they knew The beggar that they envied!) all this shall stab, Stab, stab, and stab again. And little things Shall hurt you so: stray words in books you read, And jests of strangers never meant to hurt you: The lovers in the shadow of your fence, Their faces hid, shall thrust a spare hand out, The other held, to stab you as you pass: And oh, the cry of children when they play! You shall put grief in irons and lock it up, And at the door set laughter for a guard, Yet dance through life on knives and never rest, While England knows you for a lucky man. These are your days. I tell you, I, a queen, Ruling myself and half a world. I know What fate is laid upon you. Carry it! Or, if you choose, flinch, weaken, and fall down, Lie flat and howl, and let the ones that love you (Not burdened less) half carry it and you! Will you do that? Proud man, will you do that?
Shakespeare. Because you are all woman—
Elizabeth. Have you seen it? None other sees.