Being grace itself, you can forego graces. But I have Hughes without, if you will hear him. MISS FITTON: Willingly; but he must not stay long. [_While Shakespeare goes away_, L., _she reads the words aloud._] “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.” [_Shakespeare returns with Hughes, who bows to Miss Fitton. Miss Fitton nods negligently, and leaves the spinet, taking a seat_, L.C. _Shakespeare stands at her side, facing the audience, while Hughes sings._] HUGHES [_Sings._) “I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain, Since I am myself, my own fever, Since I am myself, my own fever and pain; No more now, no more now, fond heart, with pride should we swell, Thou canst not raise forces, thou canst not raise forces enough to rebel. “I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain, Since I am myself, my own fever, Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.” MISS FITTON: [_After the first verse._] So you would rebel if you could. Hm. [_Nods her head._] SHAKESPEARE: Like all rebels in order to taste the sweets of sovereignty. HUGHES [SINGS THE SECOND VERSE.] “For love has more pow’r and less mercy than fate, To make us seek ruin, to make us seek ruin, And love those that hate. I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly in vain, Since I am myself, my own fever, Since I am myself, my own fever and pain.” [_As Hughes finishes Miss Fitton rises. Hughes, bowing, goes out._] MISS FITTON: [_Seats herself at the spinet._] Why did you write that—“to make us seek ruin and love those that hate”? SHAKESPEARE I fear you don’t love me as I love you; sometimes, even—— MISS FITTON: I don’t hate you, or I shouldn’t be here, should I? [_Hums the words, “fever and pain,” playing the tune._] SHAKESPEARE: How I envy even the dead things about you; the dress your body warms, the bracelets that clip your wrists; even the jacks that leap to kiss the tender inward of your hand. MISS FITTON: [_Stops, and holds it to him._] You may kiss it, too. [_He kisses her palm, then draws her to him and kisses her lips. She rises._] But now you must go: they’ll be coming. SHAKESPEARE: [_Rising._] And when am I to see you again—when? [_Watching her face._] To-day? [_She shakes her head._] To-morrow? Next day? When? These hours of absence make me hunger for you till I faint. Be pitiful, sweet. The touch of your hand gives me life. When you go, my heart shrinks and lies here aching-cold till I see you again. MISS FITTON: [_Listening._] I’m afraid they’ll come in and—— SHAKESPEARE: [_Imploringly._] You have not told me when I may see you again. MISS FITTON: To-morrow I’m busy. Thursday? Yes, Thursday, at Lady Rutland’s. She’ll be in waiting here. [_Gives her hand, which Shakespeare holds against his heart._] SHAKESPEARE: