_[almost beside herself]_ Another word; and I begin with
mine own hands the work the hangman shall finish.
SHAKESPEAR. You are no true Tudor: this baggage here has as good a
right to your royal seat as you. What maintains you on the throne of
England? Is it your renowned wit? your wisdom that sets at naught the
craftiest statesmen of the Christian world? No. Tis the mere chance
that might have happened to any milkmaid, the caprice of Nature that
made you the most wondrous piece of beauty the age hath seen.
_[Elizabeth's raised fists, on the point of striking him, fall to her
side]._ That is what hath brought all men to your feet, and founded
your throne on the impregnable rock of your proud heart, a stony
island in a sea of desire. There, madam, is some wholesome blunt
honest speaking for you. Now do your worst.
ELIZABETH. _[with dignity]_ Master Shakespear: it is well for you
that I am a merciful prince. I make allowance for your rustic
ignorance. But remember that there are things which be true, and are
yet not seemly to be said (I will not say to a queen; for you will
have it that I am none) but to a virgin.
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