You are the bellows and the fan to my desire: yet as soon as you see the flame, you shrink and leave me. MISS FITTON: [_Regarding him curiously._] It is hard to please you now. SHAKESPEARE: You don’t try often—nor long. MISS FITTON: [_Shrugs her shoulders._] You make it hard for me to come again. SHAKESPEARE: [_Goes and kneels at her feet as she is sitting, and puts his hands on her waist._] Why don’t you try to cure me another way? Why not come and give yourself to me, till, surfeited with sweet, the appetite may die? That is the cure of love. Cure me like that! MISS FITTON: It might take long. But I like you better as you are now. SHAKESPEARE: Do you! Ah! [_Putting his head back._] If you knew the maddening hours I spend, longing, waiting, hoping, fearing, you would pity me. There is a martyrdom in love. I live in purgatory; burning now with hell’s fevers, and now my fiend comes and my dungeon, flame-lit, is more lovely-fair than Heaven. When you have gone the air will sing of you; I close my eyes and hear the rustle of your garments, and [_putting his hands to his face_] on my hands there lingers the perfume of your beauty. [_He buries his face in her dress, then rises gravely._] You once said love would keep love; I love you, Mary, to madness. MISS FITTON: [_Rises, too._] I am fond of you, too; do not doubt it. SHAKESPEARE: Come, then [_putting his arm round her and drawing her towards the inner room_], and I will be what you like; one short half-hour—— MISS FITTON: [_Frees herself._] No, no; I must be gone. What time is it? I must be back before the dinner; I must. SHAKESPEARE: You make me hate you! To be refused and shamed.... My first thought was right. MISS FITTON: Your first thought? SHAKESPEARE: That damned boy! MISS FITTON: Herbert! [_Hurriedly._] I have not seen him for days and days. Has he been here? SHAKESPEARE: He’s not likely to come here. Damn him! MISS FITTON: [_Takes up her hat and begins to put it on; she puts her hair right with the hand-glass and then moves to the door and takes up her horseman’s coat from the settle; all this while Shakespeare sits with his head on his hand. She moves across and stands beside him, and then puts her hand on his shoulder._] You make it hard for me to come! You are so moody-sullen. What would you have me do? SHAKESPEARE: [_Looking down._] Love me, that’s all [_As if to himself._]—it isn’t much. Give me love’s ecstasy, the joy that beggars thanks; the life that is divine. Love is my mortal sickness, love! MISS FITTON: You should rouse yourself: you are moody. SHAKESPEARE: