MARY [_she sits on the table edge, swinging her pretty foot_]. So Pembroke goes to Ireland! Ay, and comes back, old winter! I can wait. And while I wait--Shakespeare! Will Shakespeare! O charity--I wish it were Marlowe! What did the old woman say? A kingdom in the likeness of a player. I wonder. Well, we’ll explore. Yet I wish it were Marlowe. [SHAKESPEARE _enters._] Ah! here comes poor Mr. Shakespeare looking for the Queen and finding-- SHAKESPEARE. The Queen! MARY. Hush! Palace walls! Well, Mr. Shakespeare, what’s the news? SHAKESPEARE. Good, bad and indifferent. MARY. Take the bad first. SHAKESPEARE. The bad?--that I have not seen you some five weeks! The good--that I have now seen you some five seconds! The indifferent--that you do not care one pin whether I see you or not for the next five years! MARY. Who told you that, Solomon? SHAKESPEARE. I have had no answer to-- MARY. Five letters, seven sonnets, two catches and a roundelay! SHAKESPEARE. Love’s Labour Lost! MARY. Ah, Mr. Shakespeare, you were not a Solomon then! There was too much Rosaline and too little Queen in that labour. SHAKESPEARE. You’re right! Solomon would have drawn all Rosaline and no Queen at all. I’ll write another play! MARY. It might pay you better than your sonnets. SHAKESPEARE. Do you read them--Rosaline? MARY. Most carefully, Mr. Shakespeare--on Saturday nights! Then I make up my accounts and empty my purse, and wonder--must I pawn my jewels? Then I cry. And then I read your latest sonnet and laugh again. SHAKESPEARE. You should not laugh. MARY. Why, is it not meant to move me? SHAKESPEARE. You should not laugh. I tell you such a thought, Such fiery lava welling from a heart, So crystalled in the wonder-working brain, Mined by the soul and rough-cut into words Fit for a poet’s faceting and, last, Strung on a string of gold by a golden tongue-- Why, such a thought is an immortal jewel To gild you, living, in men’s eyes, and after To make you queen of all the unjewelled dead Who bear not their least bracelet hence. For I, Eternally I’d deck you, were you my own, Would you but wear my necklaces divine, My rings of sorcery, my crowns of song. What chains of emeralds--did you but know! My rubies, O my rubies--could you but see! And this one gem of wonder, pearl of pearls, Hid in my heart for you, could you but take, Would you but take-- MARY. Open your heart! SHAKESPEARE. Not so. The god who made it hath forgot the key, Or lost or lent it.