Elizabeth. Tune it afresh!
Mary. You wish that, Madam?
Elizabeth. I wish it. Marlowe can wait—and Pembroke.
Mary. Madam?
Elizabeth. I am blind, deaf, dumb, so long as you practise your new tune. But the Earl of Pembroke goes to Ireland.
Mary. He’s an old glove, Madam.
Elizabeth. Young or old, not for your wearing. Strip your hand and finger your new tune!
Mary. Now, Madam?
Elizabeth. Why not? Why do I dress you and keep you at court? Here’s Spain in the ante-room and France on the stairs—am I to keep them waiting while I humour a parcel of players?
Mary. Indeed, Madam, I wonder that you have spared half an hour.