You must not think that, Violet, nor say it. It’s your love breeds those fears. VIOLET: [_Pouting._] Why did you not put me in this play? SHAKESPEARE: I did: you know I did. You were Jessica, happy, loving Jessica, and I, Lorenzo, ran away with you and talked of music and the stars by moonlight in front of Portia’s house. VIOLET: How kind you are! What a pity you don’t love me! But then love is always one-sided, they say. Ah, some day—— Who’s Portia? SHAKESPEARE: Portia? VIOLET: [_Rouses herself._] Yes, Portia. Who were you thinking of when you described Portia? She’s one of your new friends, I suppose, one of the great Court ladies. H’m! They’re no better than we are. Some of them were at the play but now talking with Kempe, the clown. Ladies, indeed! trulls would behave better. SHAKESPEARE: My gentle Violet, in a rage. VIOLET: Oh, they make me angry. Why can’t they be noble? I mean pure and sweet and gentle, instead of laughing loud and using coarse words like those women did to-day. Was Portia one of them? SHAKESPEARE: No, Violet, no. I meant Portia to be a great lady. Her carriage and manner I took from someone I once saw at a distance—a passing glance: but the wit and spirit I had no model for, none. VIOLET: You will love one of them, I know. Perhaps, by speaking of it, I put the thought into your head, and bring the danger nearer; but I cannot help it. SHAKESPEARE: Love is its torment. VIOLET: Oh, dear, dear! You will not leave me altogether, will you? Even if you love her, you will let me see you sometimes. No one will ever love you as I do. I only love myself because you like me, and when you leave me, I’ll fall out of conceit with my face, and hate it. Hateful face, that could not please my lord. SHAKESPEARE: [_Puts his hand on her shoulder._] Vain torment! In this frail hooped breast love flutters and bruises herself like a bird in a cage. VIOLET: When you are near, the pain turns to joy. SHAKESPEARE: I know; I know, so well. I’m making you the heroine of the new play I told you of—“Twelfth Night”; your name, too, shall be hers, Viola; but now you must go: I hear them coming. VIOLET: Farewell, Farewell. If I could only be a dozen women to please you, so that you might not think of Portia, hateful Portia! [_Exit Violet._] SCENE V. BURBAGE: [_Entering hurriedly._] Farce and tragedy and escape. A play within a play. FLETCHER: [_Enters just behind him, followed by Dekker, Marston, Chettle and Hughes._] A great scene! The revolt of the groundlings. Didn’t you hear them shouting, Shakespeare? SHAKESPEARE: I heard nothing. FLETCHER: Self-absorbed as ever. DEKKER: [_Sneeringly._] Lost on Parnassus! SHAKESPEARE: What was it, Fletcher? FLETCHER: