Pray, my lord, officiate.
Southampton:
As Master o’ Ceremonies, then, I make it known to all that Lady Rutland and Lady Jane Wroth, and Mistress Mary Fitton, the youngest and bravest of the Queen’s maids of honour, are new come to the Globe. Ladies, this is Master Burbage, who counterfeits kings with such nobility, and lovers with such reverence, that ladies lend him their lips in either part. And this is gentle Shakespeare, the wittiest of poets, whose sugared verses make all in love with sweets. And this is Master Chettle, playwright and Prince of Laughter. Here, too, is grave young Selden, and Masters Fletcher, Dekker, Marston, the glories of our stage.
Lacy:
And now, gentlemen, with what most cunning art or inviolate mystery will you charm the visiting fair? Thrones, there, thrones, the ladies will sit.
Miss Fitton:
[As they sit down.] But where is Master Kempe, the clown? I want to see him dance. I swear when he takes the floor in the Coranto and mimics dignity, I could die of laughing. He did not come with us! Oh, what a lack: we might have seen him jig.
Lacy:
Shall we seduce your ears with vocal harmonies, fair lady, or chant in the round to lute or viol?
Southampton: