THE MAN. There is music in your soul: many of your degree have it very notably. _[Writing]_ "Frailty: thy name is woman!" _[Repeating it affectionately]_ "Thy name is woman." THE BEEFEATER. Well, sir, it is but four words. Are you a snapper-up of such unconsidered trifles? THE MAN. _[eagerly]_ Snapper-up of--_[he gasps]_ Oh! Immortal phrase! _[He writes it down]._ This man is a greater than I. THE BEEFEATER. You have my lord Pembroke's trick, sir. THE MAN. Like enough: he is my near friend. But what call you his trick? THE BEEFEATER. Making sonnets by moonlight. And to the same lady too. THE MAN. No! THE BEEFEATER. Last night he stood here on your errand, and in your shoes. THE MAN. Thou, too, Brutus! And I called him friend! THE BEEFEATER. Tis ever so, sir. THE MAN. Tis ever so. Twas ever so. _[He turns away, overcome]._ Two Gentlemen of Verona! Judas! Judas!! THE BEEFEATER. Is he so bad as that, sir? THE MAN. _[recovering his charity and self-possession]_ Bad? Oh no. Human, Master Warder, human. We call one another names when we are offended, as children do. That is all. THE BEEFEATER. Ay, sir: words, words, words. Mere wind, sir. We fill our bellies with the east wind, sir, as the Scripture hath it. You cannot feed capons so. THE MAN. A good cadence. By your leave _[He makes a note of it]._ THE BEEFEATER. What manner of thing is a cadence, sir? I have not heard of it. THE MAN. A thing to rule the world with, friend. THE BEEFEATER. You speak strangely, sir: no offence. But, an't like you, you are a very civil gentleman; and a poor man feels drawn to you, you being, as twere, willing to share your thought with him. THE MAN. Tis my trade. But alas! the world for the most part will none of my thoughts. _Lamplight streams from the palace door as it opens from within._ THE BEEFEATER. Here comes your lady, sir. I'll to t'other end of my ward. You may een take your time about your business: I shall not return too suddenly unless my sergeant comes prowling round. Tis a fell sergeant, sir: strict in his arrest. Go'd'en, sir; and good luck! _[He goes]._ THE MAN. "Strict in his arrest"! "Fell sergeant"! _[As if tasting a ripe plum]_ O-o-o-h! _[He makes a note of them]._ _A Cloaked Lady gropes her way from the palace and wanders along the terrace, walking in her sleep._ THE LADY. _[rubbing her hands as if washing them]_ Out, damned spot. You will mar all with these cosmetics. God made you one face; and you make yourself another. Think of your grave, woman, not ever of being beautified. All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this Tudor hand. THE MAN. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! "Beautified"! "Beautified"! a poem in a single word. Can this be my Mary? _[To the Lady]_ Why do you speak in a strange voice, and utter poetry for the first time? Are you ailing? You walk like the dead. Mary! Mary!