[_Taking out some tables in ivory._] I’ve brought you tables to mark our meetings in. Will you use them? MISS FITTON: How pretty, and here’s a posy too in golden letters: [_Reads._] “Doubt that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.” That’s because I doubted your sudden-deep affection. SHAKESPEARE: Write down the day we are to meet, will you? now; and all the time between shall die and be a void. MISS FITTON: [_Archly._] Suppose I said to-night—here? SHAKESPEARE: What wine of life you pour! My blood’s aflame and shaken into blinding colours. To-night and night is here! I feel the minutes throbbing past. To-night, my night of nights. O Sweet, make me atone this ecstasy, or—To-night, you Queen of Night—You heart of joy! MISS FITTON: I shall be late, you know. It will be midnight—— SHAKESPEARE: Midnight! MISS FITTON: [_Listening._] Hush. SHAKESPEARE: To-night, at mid of night. Ah, now I know that men are richer than the gods. Midnight! MISS FITTON: Hark! They are coming! Quick! [_Shakespeare kisses her hand and hurries up the stage_, L. _A bevy of girls enter_, C., _talking, accompanied by gallants and preceded by Lacy._] SCENE IV. LACY: [_As Shakespeare passes._] Ho, Ho! Master Shakespeare doth fly from yon miracle of Nature, as from a dire portent. Methought her most brave strain of wit, and peremptory grace, would have charmed your nice fastidity. SHAKESPEARE: One may admire stars, my lord, at a distance. LACY: Do we adorate because of the distance? Ha! Ha! [_Bows with gesture. Shakespeare bows and goes out. Lacy turns to Miss Fitton._] So the Queen of gipsies has enslaved the player-poet, and violet eyes will lose their blue with weeping. MISS FITTON: Violet eyes? LACY: Violet eyes and honey-coloured hair—a nymph of the morning! MISS FITTON: Whom are you talking about? LACY: Is it a secret? The dark lady, then, has her rival in the fair maid, and courage and wit on the one side contend with downcast eyes and shrinking modesty on the other. MISS FITTON: Do you jest, or am I to believe you? Who is she—a lady? LACY: Her name—Violet. Her rank—youth and beauty. I know no more; put the culprit to the question. MISS FITTON: Where did you see them?—When? LACY: At the playhouse, one afternoon. MISS FITTON: Ha, ha! Now, if I had believed a man’s oaths how I should hate myself. But, thank Heaven! I was not befooled by his vows and protestations. The player may go to his trull, some orange-girl, I suppose, and brag; but, thank God! I am not his dupe. Violet, indeed! [_Laughs._] LACY: Do not be hasty-rash: I know nothing; she may be but his friend and genteelly propagated: I only saw them together once. MISS FITTON: