_The Antechamber at Court. Two girls, dressed as gentleman and page—Mistress Mary Fitton and Lady Cynthia Darrel—are talking together at one end of the room_, L. _Sir Walter Raleigh as Captain of the Guard is standing by the great door_, R. HERBERT: [_Enters_, R.C.] Nothing yet, Captain? RALEIGH: Nothing, my lord. HERBERT: [_Impatiently._] Hum! [_Goes on down the room and bows to Miss Fitton._] I’ve not seen you before, lady, and yet I swear I know you. LADY CYNTHIA DARREL: That were difficult; my friend’s new come to Court. HERBERT: And yet I’d wager it is Mistress Mary Fitton. [_Bows to her and half whispers._] And yester even with Lady Rutland—[_louder_] shall I say where? MISS FITTON: You may, my lord; the place is innocent. ’Tis the intent makes guilt. HERBERT: You were where my friend saw you, and lost his heart. If you found it, guard it well: he’s worthier than his place. MISS FITTON: Men only praise what they wish to part with, or think beneath them. HERBERT: You’re witty, lady! MISS FITTON: Wit’s the Christian name for sense, at Court. HERBERT: May not one praise his friend? MISS FITTON: Never to a woman! HERBERT: Why not? MISS FITTON: Who praise the friend, dispraise the woman. HERBERT: You’re too persuaded to be changed. Lady Cynthia, the Mistress of the Robes has sent me for you; may I give you conduct to her? [_To Miss Fitton, bowing._] Would you be seated lady? [_Pointing to a seat._] Your page will be returned before you’ve missed her. [_Bows low. They go off_, R.C.] SCENE IX. SHAKESPEARE: [_Enters_, L., _with a mask in his hand, and stops on catching sight of Miss Fitton_.] Ah! MISS FITTON: [_Looking at him over her shoulder._] Oh, the poet! Well, Master Shakespeare, what think you of my dress? SHAKESPEARE: Yesterday, lady, you were lovely; to-day, bewitching. MISS FITTON: There is more of the man than the woman in me, I think: yet I would this cloak were somewhat longer. [_She tries to draw it round her to cover her legs; failing in this she stands up and swings it about her._] There, I am at ease now. Does it set me off? SHAKESPEARE: As envious cloud that veils the beauty of Night’s Queen. MISS FITTON: [_Seating herself and drawing the cloak about her._] I don’t like poetry: it’s not true—sincere. You poets are too much in love with phrases to be honest. SHAKESPEARE: When the heart is full we unpack it in song, like the birds. MISS FITTON: But when the bird really feels—rage or fear, he shrieks or twitters and forgets his song. SHAKESPEARE: He still sings his love. MISS FITTON: I’d not give a cross [_Snaps her fingers_] for love that keeps time. What’s formal and composed’s a pleasure—not a passion. I want prose and truth. SHAKESPEARE: Yet they say that men love truth—and women, honeyed flatteries! MISS FITTON: