A scene for Dekker. The orange-girls have been pelting the ladies in their rooms. The ladies gibed at them, and they replied with rotten fruit. The ladies shrieked, and hid themselves; all but one, who stood in front and outfaced the furies—a queen! SHAKESPEARE: Are they safe? Where are they now? BURBAGE: The lords Southampton and Lacy are bringing them: here they come. [_Enter three ladies, masked, and Lords Southampton and Lacy, followed by Selden._] SCENE VI. LACY: At length Beauty’s piloted to the safety of the stage. And without straining extolment I proclaim that never did lady [_bowing to the tallest_] show more innocence of fear, more exornation of composure. MISS FITTON: Why should one fear an orange or an angry slut! Is this part of the stage? [_Looking round._] LACY: The veritable and singular stage of the renowned Globe, where actors, playwrights, poets fleet the hours with rich discourse and jewelled melodies. MISS FITTON: And naughty stories, I’ll be sworn. SOUTHAMPTON: If you’ll unhood, ladies, we’ll present new courtiers to you, Princes of this realm. [The ladies hesitate.] MISS FITTON: [_Stands out and swings back her hood._] That’s soon done! Ouf! [_Lets her eyes range._] LADY JANE WROTH: ’Tis easy for you, Mary, but I’m all in a twitter, and red like a cit’s wife. LADY RUTLAND: Mary’s right: if you’re going into the water you may as well jump in. [_Throws back her hood._] But how they stare! LACY: Pray, my lord, officiate. SOUTHAMPTON: As Master o’ Ceremonies, then, I make it known to all that Lady Rutland and Lady Jane Wroth, and Mistress Mary Fitton, the youngest and bravest of the Queen’s maids of honour, are new come to the Globe. Ladies, this is Master Burbage, who counterfeits kings with such nobility, and lovers with such reverence, that ladies lend him their lips in either part. And this is gentle Shakespeare, the wittiest of poets, whose sugared verses make all in love with sweets. And this is Master Chettle, playwright and Prince of Laughter. Here, too, is grave young Selden, and Masters Fletcher, Dekker, Marston, the glories of our stage. LACY: And now, gentlemen, with what most cunning art or inviolate mystery will you charm the visiting fair? Thrones, there, thrones, the ladies will sit. MISS FITTON: [_As they sit down._] But where is Master Kempe, the clown? I want to see him dance. I swear when he takes the floor in the _Coranto_ and mimics dignity, I could die of laughing. He did not come with us! Oh, what a lack: we might have seen him jig. LACY: Shall we seduce your ears with vocal harmonies, fair lady, or chant in the round to lute or viol? SOUTHAMPTON: Will you, Shakespeare, sing first? [_Shakespeare, as if speechless, with a gesture of the hand, draws back, still gazing at Miss Fitton. Southampton turns to Miss Fitton._] Shall it be a song of love or war? MISS FITTON: I prefer fighting or laughing to languishing. LADY JANE WROTH: