Act 4 — Scene I.
Reading edition
In the “Mitre” Tavern.
Shakespeare:
[To Ben Jonson, whom he finds sitting.] Good morning, Ben. Has Burbage left?
Jonson:
He’s gone to the theatre; he will be back, anon. You’re all to go to Court, he says. Do you play?
Shakespeare:
[Indifferently.] I don’t know: I hope not. [Drawer enters and gives Shakespeare a letter.] Will you forgive me?
Jonson:
[Shakespeare reads.] I’ll wager that’s from Chettle, asking you to pay his reckoning. [Shakespeare nods.] But you won’t do it. No one deserves help less.
Shakespeare:
Those who deserve it least, Ben, often need it most.
136Jonson:
Need! He is all needs; he but uses you—shamelessly.
Shakespeare:
[Looking at the letter and smiling.] He signs himself “the old roisterer who won’t trouble you long.”
Jonson:
“The old roisterer” at your expense.
Shakespeare:
I owe him what money can never pay [takes out his purse] his jokes and humoured laughter. He warms me with his hot love of life, and living.
[Gives Drawer gold; exit Drawer.
Jonson:
I’ve no patience with you. You play prince-fool with everyone and you’ll suffer for it yet.
Shakespeare:
Prince-fool, indeed. Which is the better title, I wonder:—prince or fool? [Shakespeare goes to window; opens lattice and looks out.] Hush; hark! [Opens the door, listens; shuts it again.] Curse her!
137Jonson:
Be careful of your money, man, and the world will let you play both parts at will.
Shakespeare:
Money! What is money to me?
[Returning into the room again and moving about and then going to the casement.]
Jonson:
Everything, Will, shield and sword; back and front piece. [Shakespeare turns round listening.] You are love’s plaything, Will.
Shakespeare:
[Stopping in front of him.] Love lives on love, Ben; the less she gives me the less I crave. When I saw her every day it was too little, and now I see her twice a month, I’m no longer her slave. ’Tis not worth while to befool oneself for so little.
Jonson:
[Shrugging his shoulders.] H’m. You’re not cured yet!
Shakespeare:
Hush! [Hastens to door and listens, opens it; 138drops his hands in despair, shuts it again, turns into the room.] Damn her!
Jonson:
Love, you know——
Shakespeare:
[Stops in front of him.] Is it love or hate? Sometimes I hate her—sometimes she is coarse to me, obstinate and vain, soulless as a drab, sometimes [Puts his hands to his face.] the rose of women. [Throws himself in a seat.] I pass my time in waiting for her, thinking of her: I am degraded into a brute-desire. She writes, “I will be with you in an hour,” that is three hours agone; she is not here yet, and may not come to-day; damn her!
Jonson:
Why don’t you work; put her out of mind: forget her?
Shakespeare:
Forget! work! That is the worst of her, she kills my work, and yet she quickens life in me. When we sacrifice ourselves for some one, Ben; when we give too much; we grow to hate her! 139... Is it not shameful of her to tease me so? [Goes to window again and looks out.] The slut! [Sits down again.]
Jonson:
They say a man gets the woman he merits. I have a shrew, a scold, constant and jealous like the itch; you a wanton, mad with pride. Yet we could be free if we would; we are afraid to hurt them, Will; that’s it—afraid. What fools men are!
Shakespeare:
[Starting up.] I wish she were here, I’d hurt her——
Jonson:
Hark; she comes! I’ll not spoil sport.
[Exit by door, L.