Shakespeare. —and not as you’re the Queen, I’ll let you be the tongue to my own soul, Yet not for long I’ll bear it.
Elizabeth. To each his angel For good or ill. Women to a man, the man to a woman ever Mated or fated. I am this fate to you, As to me once a fallen star you knew not. It’s long ago. You should have known the man. He was the glory of the English night, Its red star in decline. For see what came— His fires were earthy and he choked himself In his own ash. Not good but goodly was he, A natural prince of the world: and he had been one Had he been other, or I blind, or—Mary. Lucifer! Lucifer! He loved me not, But would have used me. Well—he used me not. He died. I loved him. This between us two. Bury it deep!
Shakespeare. Deep as my sorrow lies. But Queen, what cometh after?
Elizabeth. Work.
Shakespeare. And after?
Elizabeth. Sleep comes for me.
Shakespeare. And after?
Elizabeth. Sleep for you.
Shakespeare. And after?
Elizabeth. Nothing. Only the blessed sleep.