To him presently came Richard Burbage.
“Oho, my William,” said the tragedian. “Piecing out, I presume, a further parcel of neat verses for the fair Rosalind?”
“No, Dick, a greater affair than that is toward.”
The tone banished all levity from Burbage’s lips. “Why, what is the matter?” he said.
“Must I tell it or must I not?” The playwright seemed to be thinking aloud. Then he broke out with a kind of petulance. “I would to heaven I was not curst with this fell disease!”
“Which of your fell diseases is that, dear coz?”
“The bitterest of them all—the disease of not being able to know your own mind.”
“The penalty of high imagination, my friend,” said Richard Burbage, with an air of understanding and sympathy.
“You are right, Dickon. The penalty of imagination, as you say. One of these days I will take a revenge upon myself and make a play of it. It is the bitterest thing in the world. There’s no peace in this life for those who suffer it. But I have here a matter in which I crave your help. Sit ye there, by the yew-tree yonder, and I will unfold the most tragical tale that ever came from the lips of man.”
Burbage sat as his friend desired. In spite of his colleague’s perplexed face he was prepared for one of those odd, fantastic, whimsical inventions that often enough had been poured into his ear. But this was to prove another kind of matter altogether.