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Shakespeare In Love

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Henslowe, do you know what happens|to a man who doesn't pay his debts?
His boots catch fire!
Why do you how!...
when it is I who am bitten?
- What am I, Mr. Lambert?|- Bitten, Mr. Fennyman.
How badly bitten, Mr. Frees?
Twelve pounds, one schilling and fourpence,|Mr. Fennyman, including interest.
- Aaah! I can pay you!|- When?
Two weeks! Three weeks at the most!|Oh, for pity's sake!
Take them out.
Where will you find...
Sixteen pounds,|five schillings and ninepence.
Including interest,|in three weeks?
- I have a wonderful new play.|- Put them back in.
- It's a comedy!|- Cut off his nose.
It's a new comedy|by William Shakespeare.
- And his ears.|- And a share!
We will be partners,|Mr. Fennyman!
It's a crowd-tickler.
Mistaken identities.|Shipwreck. Pirate king.
- A bit with a dog, and love triumphant.|- I think I've seen it.
I didn't like it.
- But this time it is by Shakespeare.|- What's it called?
Romeo and Ethel,|the Pirate's Daughter.
Good title.
A play takes time.|Find the actors, rehearsals.
Let's say we open|in two weeks.
That's, what, 500 groundlings|at tuppence a head.
In addition, 400 backsides at|threepence, a penny extra for cushions.
Call it, uh, 200 cushions.
Say two performances for safety.|How much is that, Mr. Frees?
- Twenty pounds|to the penny, Mr. Fennyman.|- Correct.
- But I have to pay|the actors and the author.|- Share of the profits.
- There's never any--|- Of course not.
Oh-- Oh, Mr. Fennyman, I think you|might have hit upon something.
Sign there.
So, Romeo and Ethel,|the Pirate's Daughter.
Almost finished?
Oh, without doubt he's completing it|at this very moment.
Will. Will!
Where is my play?
Tell me you have it nearly done.|Tell me you have it started.
Doubt that the stars are fire,|doubt that the sun doth move.
No, no, we haven't the time.|Talk prose.
Where is my play?
- It is all locked safe in here.|- God be praised.
- As soon as I find my muse.|- Who is she this time?
She is always Aphrodite.
Aphrodite Baggot, who does it|behind the Dog and Trumpet?
Henslowe, you have no soul,
so how can you understand|the emptiness that seeks a soul mate?
Ow! Will!
I am a dead man,|and buggered to boot.
My theater is closed by the plague|these twelve weeks.
My actors are forced to tour|the inn yards of England...
while Mr. Burbage and the Chamberlain's|Men are invited to court...
and receive ten pounds|to play your piece,
written for my theater,|by my writer, at my risk...
when you were green|and grateful.
- What piece? Richard Crookback?|- No! It's comedy they want.
Like Romeo and Ethel.
- Who wrote that?|- Nobody. You were writing it for me.
- I gave you three pound a month since.|- Half what you owe me.
I'm still due for|One Gentleman of Verona.
What is money to you and me?|l, your patron, you, my wordwright.
When the plague lifts,
Burbage will have a new play|by Christopher Marlowe for the Curtain.
- I will have nothing for the Rose.|- Mr. Henslowe.
- Will you lend me 50 pounds?|- Fifty pounds?
- What for?|- Burbage offers me a partnership|in the Chamberlain's Men.
For 50 pounds, my days|as a hired player are over.
Oh, cut out my heart.|Throw my liver to the dogs.
No, then?
Theaters are handmaidens of the devil!
The players breed lewdness in your wives|and wickedness in your children!
And the Rose smells|thusly rank by any name!
I say, a plague|on both their houses!
Where are you going?
My weekly confession.
Words, words, words.
Once, I had the gift.
I could make love out of words|as a potter makes cups of clay.
Love that overthrows empires.
Love that binds two hearts together,|come hellfire and brimstone.
For sixpence a line,|I could cause a riot in a nunnery.
-But now--|-And yet you tell me you lie with women.
Black Sue,|Fat Phoebe,
Rosaline, Burbage's seamstress,|Aphrodite, who does it behind--
Yes, now and again.|What of it?
I have lost my gift.
I am here to help you.
Tell me,|in your own words.
I-lt's as if|my quill is broken,
as if the organ|of my imagination has dried up,
as if the proud tower|of my genius has collapsed.
- Interesting.|- Nothing comes.
Most interesting.
It's like trying to pick a lock|with a wet herring.
Tell me, are you lately humbled|in the act of love?
How long has it been?
A goodly length in times past,|but lately--
No, no.|You have a wife, children?
I was a lad of 18.
Anne Hathaway was a woman|half as old again.
- A woman of property?|- She had a cottage.
- One day she was three months|gone with child, so--|- And your relations?
- On my mother's side, the Ardens.|- No, your marriage bed.
Four years and a hundred miles away|in Stratford.
A cold bed, too,|since the twins were born.
Banishment was a blessing.
- So, now you are free to love--|- Yet cannot love, nor write it.
Here is a-- a bangle...
found in Psyche's temple|on Olympus.
Cheap at fourpence.
Write your name on a paper|and feed it into the snake.
Will it restore my gift?
The woman who wears the snake will|dream of you, and your gift will return.
Words will flow like a river.
See you next week.
- Now where?|- To the palace at Whitehall.
All right.
Hello, Will.
Prithee, Mr. Kempe. Break a leg.
- You too, good Crab.|- Crab's nervous.|He's never played the palace.
When will you write me|a tragedy, Will?
- I could do it.|- No, they would laugh at Seneca|if you played it.
There is no dog in the first scene,|Mr. Kempe, thank you.
- How goes it, Will?|- I'm still owed money|for this play, Burbage.
Not by me.|I only stole it.
My sleeve wants for a button,|Mistress Rosaline.
Where were|my seamstress' eyes?
- When are you coming over|to the Chamberlain's Men?|- When I have 50 pounds.
- You writing?|- A comedy. All but done.
A pirate comedy.
- Wonderful.|- Bring it tomorrow.
- It's for Henslowe.|He paid me. Ten pounds.|- You're a liar.
- He wants Romeo for Ned|and the Admiral's Men.|- Mmm. Ned's wrong for it.
- Here's two sovereigns. I'll give you|another two when I see the pages.|- Done.
Burbage, I will see you|hanged for a pickpocket.
The queen has commanded it.|She loves a comedy.
And the Master of the Revels|favors us.
And what favor does Mr. Tilney|receive from you?
- Ask him.|- She comes!
Cease to persuade,|my loving Proteus.
Home-keeping youth|have ever homely wits,
were it not affection|chains thy tender days...
When will you write me|a sonnet, Will?
- I've lost my gift.|- You left it in my bed.
Come to look for it again.
Are you to be my muse,|Rosaline?
Burbage has my keeping,
but you have my heart.
You see?|The consumptives plot against me.
Will Shakespeare has a play.
Let's go and cough through it.
My father weeping; my mother wailing;
our maid howling;|our cat wringing her hands.
Yet did not this coldhearted cur...
shed one tear--
You see? Comedy.
Love, and a bit with a dog.
That's what they want.
He is a stone, a very pebble stone,
and has no more pity in him|than a dog!
A Jew would have wept|to have seen our parting.
Now the dog all this while|sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word--
Well played, Master Crab!
I commend you!
What light is light...
if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy...
if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think|that she is by...
and feed upon the shadow|of perfection.
Except I be by Silvia|in the night,
there is no music|in the nightingale.
Unless I look on Silvia|in the day,
there is no day for me|to look upon.
Did you like Proteus or Valentine best?
Proteus for speaking.|Valentine for looks.
Oh, I liked the dog|for laughs.
Silvia, I did not care for much.
His fingers were red|from fighting...
and he spoke like|a schoolboy at lessons.
Stage love will never be true love...
while the law of the land|has our heroines being played|by pipsqueak boys in petticoats.
- Oh, when can we see another?|- When the queen commands it.
No, but at the playhouse.|Nurse!
Be still.|Playhouses are not for wellborn ladies.
Oh! I'm not so wellborn.
Well-monied is the same|as wellborn,
and well-married|is more so.
Lord Wessex|was looking at you tonight.
All the men at court|are without poetry.
If they see me, they see|my father's fortune.
I will have poetry|in my life,
and adventure.
And love.|Love above all.
Like Valentine|and Silvia?
No, not the artful postures|of love,
but love that overthrows life.
Unbiddable, ungovernable,|like a riot in the heart,
and nothing to be done,|come ruin or rapture.
Love as there has never been|in a play.
I will have love,|or I will end my days as--
As a nurse?
Oh, but I would be|Valentine and Silvia too.
Oh, good nurse,|God save you, and good night.
I would stay asleep|my whole life...
if I could dream myself|into a company of players.
Clean your teeth|while you dream, then.
Now spit.
This time the boots|are coming off.
- What have I done?|- The theaters have all been|closed down by the plague.
- Oh, that.|- By order of the Master of the Revels.
Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain|about the theater business.
The natural condition is one|of insurmountable obstacles on|the road to imminent disaster.
- So what do we do?|- Nothing.
- Strangely enough,|it all turns out well.|- How?
I don't know.|It's a mystery.
Shall I kill him, Mr. Fennyman?
The theaters are reopened...
by order of|the Master of the Revels!
The theaters are reopened!
Mr. Fennyman.
Mr. Tilney has reopened|the playhouses.
If you wouldn't mind.
Where's the play?
Oh, it's coming.|It's coming.
It's coming.
Will, I have wonderful news.
So have l.|Romeo and Rosaline, scene one.
God, I'm good!
Rosaline?|You mean Ethel.
Mr. Tilney.
Like you,|I found him not at home.
I would've made you immortal.
Tell Burbage he has lost|a new play by Will Shakespeare.
What does Burbage care of that?
He's readying the Curtain|for Kit Marlowe.
- You've opened the playhouses?|- I have, Master Shakespeare.
- But the plague--|- Yes, I know.
But he was always|hanging around the house.
The special today is a pig's|foot marinated in juniper berry vinegar,
- served on a buckwheat pancake--|- Will!
Have you finished?
Yes, nearly.
- Good morning, Master Nol.|You will have a nice part.|- Yes!
- We'll need Ralph for the pirate king.|- Clear that bloody table!
None other than the Admiral's Men|are out on tour.
I need actors!
Those of you who are unknown|will have a chance to be known!
- What about the money, Mr. Henslowe?|- It won't cost you a penny!
Auditions in half an hour!
Ralph Bagswell,|I'd have a part for you,
but, alas, I hear you are|a drunkard's drunkard.
Never when I'm working.
Never when I'm working!
Get me to drink mandragora.
Straight up, Will?
Give my friend a beaker|of your best brandy.
- How goes it, Will?|- Wonderful. Wonderful.
- Burbage says you have a play.|- I have, and the chinks to show for it.
I insist.|A beaker for Mr. Marlowe.
I hear you have a new play|for the Curtain.
Not new.|My Doctor Faustus.
Ah.|I love your early work.
"Was this the face that|launched a thousand ships...
and burnt the topless towers|of llium?"
I have a new one|nearly finished, and better.
The Massacre at Paris.
- Whew. Good title.|- Mmm. Yours?
Romeo and Ethel,|the Pirate's Daughter.
Yes, I know. I know.
What is the story?
Well, there's this pirate--
In truth, I have not written a word.
Romeo is ltalian,
always in and out of love.
Yes, that's good.|Until he meets--
- Ethel.|- Do you think?
- The daughter of his enemy.|- The daughter of his enemy.
His best friend|is killed in a duel...
by Ethel's brother, or something--|His name is Mercutio.
Mercutio.|Good name.
- Will! They're waiting for you!|- Yes, I'm coming.
Good luck with yours, Kit.
- I thought your play was for Burbage.|- This is a different one.
A different one|you haven't written?
Was this the face...
that launched a thousand ships...
and burnt the topless|towers of llium?
Thank you.
Was this the face that|launched a thousand ships...
- and burnt the top--|topless towers of llium?|- Thank you!
Was this the face...
that launched a thousand ships|and burnt the topless--
I would like to give you something|from Faustus by Christopher Marlowe.
- How refreshing.|- ...the topless towers of llium?
Sweet Helen,|make me immortal with a kiss.
W-Was this the f--
Very good, Mr. Wabash.|Report to the property master.
My tailor wants to be an actor.
I have a few debts|here and there.
Well, that seems|to be everybody.
- Did you see a Romeo?|- I did not.
Well, I to my work,|you to yours.
Oh, God.
May I begin, sir?
- Your name?|- Thomas Kent.
I-l would like to do a speech|by a writer who commands|the heart of every player.
What light is light...
if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy|if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think|that she is by...
and feed upon the shadow|of perfection.
Except I be by Silvia|in the night,
there is no music|in the nightingale.
Unless I look on Silvia|in the day,
there is no day|for me to look upon.
She is my essence,|and I leave to be if I be not--
- Take off your hat!|- My hat?
Where'd you learn|how to do that?
- I--|- Let me see you. Take off your hat.
- Are you M-Master Shakespeare?|- Wait there.
Wait there!
- Will, w-where are the pages?|- Where is the boy?
B-B-B-Break a leg!
Sir, will you buy|my sweet orange?
Everybody ready? All away!
- Follow that boat!|- Right you are, governor.
I know your face.|Are you an actor?
- Yes.|- Yes, I think I've|seen you in something.
- That one about a king.|- Really?
I had that Christopher Marlowe|in my boat once.
- Do you know that house?|- Sir Robert De Lesseps.
Where is she? Our guests are upon us!
Lord Wessex, too,|bargaining for a bride.
My husband will have it|settled tonight.
Stamped, sealed|and celebrated.
Tomorrow he drags me off|to the country,
and it will be three weeks gone|before we return from our estates.
God save you, Mother.
Hot water, Nurse.
I seek Master Thomas Kent.
- Who, sir?|- The actor.
- Who asks for him?|- Will Shakespeare.
Poet, playwright of the Rose.
Master Kent...
is my nephew.
I will wait.
Much good may it do you.
"Romeo Montague,
a Young Man of Verona."
Verona again?
"A comedy|of quarreling families...
reconciled in|the discovery of Romeo...
to be the very same|Capulet cousin...
stolen from the cradle and fostered|to manhood by his Montague mother...
that was robbed of her own child|by the pirate king."
Your mother and your father--
From tomorrow,|away in the country for three weeks!
Is Master Shakespeare not handsome?
- He looks well enough for a charlatan.|- Oh, Nurse!
He would give Thomas Kent...
the life of|Viola De Lesseps' dreaming.
My lady, when your parents return,|I will tell.
You will not tell.
As I love you and you love me,
you will bind my breast|and buy me a boy's wig.
Master Plum.|What business here?
The five schilling business, Will.
We play for the dancing.
Hyah! Hyah, hyah!
I seek Master Thomas Kent.
Musicians don't eat.|Sir Robert's orders.
She's a beauty, my lord,
as would take a king to church|for the dowry of a nutmeg.
My plantations in Virginia|are not mortgaged for a nutmeg.
I have an ancient name|which will bring you preferment...
when your grandson is a Wessex.
- Is she fertile?|- Oh, she will breed.
- If she do not, send her back.|- Is she obedient?
As any mule in Christendom.
But if you are the man to ride her,
there are rubies in the saddlebag.
I like her.
By all the stars in heaven.
Who is she?
Viola De Lesseps? Dream on, Will.
Master Shakespeare.
My lady Viola.
My lord.
I have spoken with your father.
So, my lord?|I speak with him every day.
Good sir.
I heard you were a poet.
A poet of no words?
I was a poet till now, but I've seen|beauty that puts my poems...
at one with the talking ravens|in the Tower.
- How do I offend, my lord?|- By coveting my property.
I cannot shed blood in her house,|but I will cut your throat anon.
Do you have a name?
Christopher Marlowe,|at your service.
Romeo. Romeo.
A Young Man of Verona.
A comedy by William Shakespeare.
- My lady!|- Who is there?
- Will Shakespeare.|- Madam!
Anon, good nurse, anon.
- Oh, Master Shakespeare.|- The same, alas.
But why "alas"?
- A lowly player.|- Alas, indeed.
For I thought you|the highest poet of my esteem...
and a writer of plays|that capture my heart.
- Oh, I am him too.|- Madam!
Anon!|I will come again.
Oh, I am fortune's fool.|I will be punished for this.
Oh, my lady, my love!
If they find you here,|they will kill you.
- You can bring them with a word.|- Oh, not for the world.
- Madam!|- Anon!
Draw, if you be men!
Gregory, remember thy swashing blow!
Part, fools! Put up your swords.|You know not what you do.
It starts well, then it's all long-faced|about some Rosaline.
Where's the comedy, Will?|Where's the dog?
Do you think it's funny?
I was a pirate king, now I'm a nurse.|That's funny.
We are six men short, and those we|have will be overparted ranters...
and stutterers who should be|sent back to the stews.
My Romeo's let me down.|I see disaster.
We are four acts short,|if you're looking for disaster.
- Sir!|- Who are you, master?
I'm Ethel, sir,|the pirate's daughter.
I'll be damned if you are!
Your attention, please!
- Gentlemen, thank you!|- You are welcome.
- Who's that?|- Nobody. He's the author.
We are about to embark|on a great voyage.
It is customary to make a little speech|on the first day.
It does no harm.|Authors like it.
You want to know what parts you are|to receive. All will be settled as we--
I'll do it.
Now listen to me, you dregs.
Actors are ten a penny,
and l, Hugh Fennyman,|hold your nuts in my hand.
The Admiral's Men|are returned to the house!
Earl! Good to see you.
Who is this?
Silence, you dog!
I am Hieronimo.
I am Tamburlaine.
I am Faustus.
I am Barabbas,|the Jew of Malta.
Oh, yes, Master Will.|I am Henry the Sixth.
What is the play,|and what is my part?
- Uh, one moment, sir--|- Who are you?
I'm, um--|I'm the money.
Then you may remain,
so long as you remain silent.
Pay attention. You will see|how genius creates a legend.
- Thank you, sir.|- We are in desperate want|of a Mercutio, Ned.
A young nobleman of Verona.
- And the title of this piece?|- Mercutio.
Is it?
I will play him.
Mr. Pope. Mr. Philips.|Welcome.
George Bryan.|James Armitage.
Sam, my pretty one!
- Are you ready to fall in love again?|- I am, Master Shakespeare.
Your voice.|Have they dropped?
No! No.|A touch of cold only.
Master Henslowe, you have your actors...|except Thomas Kent.
I, uh, I saw his Tamburlaine,|you know.
- It was wonderful.|- Yes, I saw it.
Of course,|such mighty writing.
There's no one like Marlowe.
Better fortune, boy.
I was in a play.
They cut my head off|in Titus Andronicus.
When I write plays,|they'll be like Titus.
You admire it.
I liked it|when they cut heads off,
and the daughter|mutilated with knives.
- What's your name?|- John Webster.
Here, kitty, kitty.
Plenty of blood.
That's the only writing.
I have to get back.
See, where he comes.|So please you step aside.
I'll know his grievance,|or be much denied.
I would thou wert so happy by thy stay|to hear true shrift. Come, madam.
- Cut around him for now.|- What? Who?
- Romeo.|- The one who came with your letter.
- What?|- Good morrow, cousin.
Is the day so young?
- But new struck nine.|- Ay me. Sad hours seem long.
What sadness|lengthens Romeo's hours?
Not having that which having|makes them short.
- Good.|- In love?
- Out.|- Of love?
- Out of her favor where I am in love.|- Don't spend it all at once.
Yes, sir.
- Do you understand me?|- No, sir.
You're speaking about|a baggage we never even meet.
What will be left in his purse|when he meets his Juliet?
- Juliet? You mean Ethel.|- God's teeth!
Am I to suffer this constant stream|of interruption?
What will he do in Act Two,|when he meets the love of his life?
I-l'm very sorry, sir.|I have not seen Act Two.
Of course you have not.|I have not written it.
Go once more.
Where is Mercutio?
Locked safe in here. I'll leave|the scene in your safekeeping, Ned.
I have a sonnet to write.
Sonnet?|You mean a play!
For Lady Viola De Lesseps,
by the hand of Thomas Kent.
"Shall I compare thee|to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely|and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake|the darling buds of May--"
Two hours at prayer!
Lady Viola is pious, my lord.
Piety is for Sunday!
And two hours of prayer is not piety,|it is self-importance.
It would be better|that you return tomorrow, my lord.
It would be better if you'd|tell her to get off her knees|and show some civility...
to her six-day|lord and master!
My lady Viola.
Lord Wessex.|You've been waiting.
I am aware of it.
But it is|beauty's privilege.
You flatter, my lord.
No. I have spoken|to the queen.
Her Majesty's consent is requisite|when a Wessex takes a wife,
and once given,|her consent is her command.
Do you intend to marry,|my lord?
Your father should keep you|better informed.
He has bought me for you.
He returns from his estates to see us|married two weeks from Saturday.
You are allowed|to show your pleasure.
But I do not love you,|my lord.
How your mind hops about.
Your father|was a shopkeeper.
Your children will bear arms,|and I will recover my fortune.
That is the only matter|under discussion today.
You will like Virginia.
- Virginia?|- Oh, yes.
My fortune lies in my plantations.|The tobacco weed.
I need 4,000 pounds to fit out a ship|and put my investments to work.
I fancy tobacco|has a future.
We will not stay there long.|Three or four years.
But why me?
It was your eyes.
No, your lips.
Will you defy your father|and your queen?
The queen has consented?
She wants to inspect you.
At Greenwich, come Sunday.
Be submissive,|modest, grateful...
and brief.
I will do my duty, my lord.
"Master Will, poet dearest to my heart,
I beseech you|banish me from yours.
I am to marry Lord Wessex.
A daughter's duty...
and the queen's command."
Gentlemen upstage|Ladies downstage
Gentlemen upstage|Ladies downstage
Are you a lady Mr. Kent
I'm very sorry, sir.
We're gonna have to do it again.
You did not like the speech?
No, the speech is excellent.
"Oh, then I see Queen Mab|hath been with you."
Excellent,|and a good length.
But then he disappears|for the length of a bible.
There.|You have this duel.
A skirmish of words and swords|such as I never wrote, nor anyone.
He dies with such passion|and poetry as you ever heard.
"A plague|on both your houses!"
He dies?
- Ohh!|- Will!
Where are my pages?
Did you give her my letter?
And this is for you!
Oh, Thomas,|she has cut my strings.
I'm unmanned,
unmended and unmade,
Iike a puppet in a box.
- Writer, is he?|- Row your boat!
She tells me to keep away.
She is to marry Lord Wessex!|What should I do?
If you love her,|you must do as she asks.
- And break her heart and mine?|- It is only yours you can know.
She loves me, Thomas!
- Does she say so?|- No.
And yet she does where|the ink has run with tears.
- Was she weeping|when she gave you this?|- Uh--
- Her letter came to me by the nurse.|- Your aunt.
Yes, my aunt.
But perhaps|she wept a little.
Tell me how|you love her, Will.
Like a sickness|and its cure together.
Oh, yes.
Like rain and sun.
Like cold and heat.
Is your lady beautiful?
Since I came here from the country,
I have not seen her close.
Tell me, is--|is she beautiful?
Thomas, if I could write|with the beauty of her eyes,
I was born to look in them|and know myself.
A-A-And her lips?
Her lips?
The early morning rose would whither|on the branch if it could feel envy.
And her voice,|like lark's song?
Deeper, softer.|None of your twittering larks.
I would banish nightingales from her|garden before they interrupt her song.
- Ah, she sings too?|- Constantly.
Without doubt. And plays the lute.|She has a natural ear.
And her bosom.
Did I mention her bosom?
What of her bosom?
Oh, Thomas,|a pair of pippins...
as round and rare|as golden apples.
I think milady is wise|to keep your love at a distance.
For what lady could live up|to it close to...
when her eyes and lips and voice|may be no more beautiful than mine.
Besides, can a--
can a lady of wealth|and noble marriage...
Iove happily with|a bankside poet and player?
Yes, by God!
Love knows nothing|of rank or riverbank.
It will spark between a queen and|the poor vagabond who plays the king.
Their love|should be minded by each,
for love denied blights|the soul we owe to God.
So tell my lady William Shakespeare|waits for her in the garden.
But what of Lord Wessex?
For one kiss I would defy|a thousand Wessexes.
Oh, Will.
Thank you, my lady.
Viola De Lesseps.|Known her since she was this high.
Wouldn't deceive a child.
Strangely enough,|I'm a bit of a writer meself.
It wouldn't take you long|to read it.
I expect you'd know|all the booksellers!
Can you love a fool?
Can you love a player?
You're still a maid,|and perhaps as mistook in me|as I was mistook in Thomas Kent.
Are you the author of the plays|of William Shakespeare?
I am.
Then kiss me again,|for I am not mistook.
I do not know|how to undress a man.
It is strange to me too.
Go to. Go to.
I would not|have thought it.
There is something|better than a play.
There is.
Even your play.
And that was only|my first try.
You would not leave me.
I must.
Look how pale the window.
Mmm, no.|The morning rooster woke me.
It was the owl.|Come to bed.
Oh, let Henslowe wait.
Mr. Henslowe?
Mmm, let him be damned|for his pages.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
There is time. Mmm!|It is still dark.
- It's broad day.|The rooster tells us so.|- It was the owl.
Believe me, love, it was the owl--
You would leave us players|without a scene to read today?
My lady?
The house is stirring.|It is a new day.
It is a new world.
Good pilgrim,|you do wrong your hand too much,
which mannerly devotion|shows in this.
For saints have hands|that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm|is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips,|and holy palmers too?
Aye, pilgrim.
Lips that they must use|in prayer.
Oh, then, dear saint,|let lips do what hands do.
They pray.
Grant thou, lest faith|turn to despair.
Saints do not move,|though grant for prayers' sake.
It's you.
Suffering cats!
Then move not...
while my prayer's effect|I take.
Thus from my lips,|by thine my sin is purged.
Then have my lips|the sin that they have took.
Sin from my lips? Oh, trespass|sweetly urged. Give me my sin again.
Yes, yes!|Um, not quite right.
It is more--|Let me.
Then have my lips|the sin that they have took.
Sin from my lips? Oh, trespass|sweetly urged. Give me my sin again.
- You kiss by the book.|- Well, Will!
It was lucky you were here.
- Why do not I write|the rest of your play--|- Yes, yes!
Uh, continue. Now the nurse.|Where is Ralph?
Madam, your mother|craves a word with you.
- What is her mother?|- Marry, bachelor,
her mother is the lady of the house,|and a good lady...
and a wise and virtuous.
I nursed her daughter|that you talked withal.
I tell you, he that|can lay hold of her...
shall have the chinks.
- Is she a Capulet?|- Mmm.
Oh, dear account!|My life is my foe's debt.
Away. Be gone.|The sport is at the best.
Aye, so I fear.|The more is my unrest.
Come hither, nurse.|What is yon gentleman?
The son and heir|of old Tiberio.
Let it be night.
- What's he that follows here|that would not dance?|- I know not.
Go ask his name.
If he be married,|my grave is like to be my wedding bed.
No, do not go.
I must. I must.
- The only son of your great enemy.|- Terrible.
Simply... terrible!
"But soft, what light|through yonder window breaks?
It is the east,
and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun,|and kill the envious moon...
who is already sick|and pale with grief...
that thou, her maid,|art far more fair than she."
- Oh, Will.|- Yes, some of it's speakable.
"lt is my lady.|Oh, it is my love!
Oh, that she knew she were!
The brightness of her cheek|would shame those stars...
as daylight doth a lamp."
Her eyes in heaven would|through the airy region...
stream so bright...
that birds would sing|and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek|upon her hand.
Oh, that I were a glove|upon that hand,
that I might touch|that cheek.
- Ay, me.|- "Oh, Romeo.
Wherefore art thou, Romeo?
- Deny thy father and--"|- Deny thy father and refuse thy name.
Or, if thou wilt not,|be but sworn my love,
and I'll no longer|be a Capulet.
Shall I hear more,|or shall I speak at this?
"What man art thou that|thus bescreened in night...
so stumblest|on my counsel?"
By a name I know not|how to tell thee who I am.
My name, dear saint, is hateful to|myself, because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written|I would tear the word.
"The orchard walls are high|and hard to climb...
and the place death,|considering who thou art,
if any of my kinsmen|find thee here.
If they do see thee,|they will murder thee."
Alack, there lies more peril|in thine eye than 20 of their swords.
Look thou but sweet,|and I am proof against their enmity.
Would not for the world|they saw thee here.
I have night's cloak|to hide me from their eyes.
- And but thou love me|let them find me here.|- "Good night.
Good night,
as sweet repose and rest|come to thy heart...
as that within my breast.
Oh, wilt thou leave me|so unsatisfied?"
That's my line.
Oh. It is mine too.
Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
What satifaction|canst thou have tonight?
The exchange of thy love's|faithful vow for mine.
"My bounty is as boundless|as the sea.
My love is deep.
The more I give to thee,
the more I have,
for both are infinite."
- I hear some noise within.|Dear love, adieu.|- Juliet!
- "Anon, good nurse."|- Anon, good nurse.|Sweet Montague, be true.
"Stay but a little.|I will come again."
Stay but a little.|I will come again.
Oh, blessed, blessed night.
"l am afeared...
being in night,|all this is but a dream.
Too flattering sweet...
to be substantial."
To cease thy strife|and leave me to my grief.
A thousand times,|good night.
A thousand times|the worse to want thy light.
I cannot move in this dress.|It makes me look like a pig.
I have no neck in this pig dress.
- How is it?|- It's all right.
Ned, I know, I know.
- It's good.|- Oh?
The title won't do.
Romeo and Juliet.|Just a suggestion.
Thank you, Ned.
- You are a gentleman.|- And you are|a Warwickshire shit-house.
- What o'clock tomorrow|shall I send to thee?|- By the hour of nine.
I shall not fail.|'Tis 20 year till then.
I have forgot|why I called thee back.
- You mean no dog of any kind?|- Shh! Silence.
The friar marries them in secret,
then Ned gets into a fight|with one of the Capulets.
Romeo tries to stop them and gets in|Ned's way. I mean, in Mercutio's way.
So Tybalt kills Mercutio,|then Romeo kills Tybalt.
Then the prince|banishes him from Verona.
That must be when he goes on the voyage|and gets shipwrecked...
on the island|of the pirate king.
For God's sake,|cease your prattling and get out!
Get out!
A thousand apologies.
And with a silken thread|plucks it back again,
so loving-jealous|of his liberty.
- I would I were thy bird.|- Sweet, so would l; yet I should|kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night.|Good night.
Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I|shall say good night till it be morrow.
'Tis Sunday.
I found something|in my sleep.
The friar who married them|will take up their destinies.
- But it will end well for love.|- In heaven, perhaps.
It is not a comedy|I'm writing now.
A broad river|divides my lovers.
Family, duty, fate.
As unchangeable as nature.
This is not life, Will.
It is a stolen season.
- Be patient, my lord.|- Patient?
- Do you ask Her Majesty to be patient?|- My Lord, I will go--
Sunday. Greenwich!
Now, pay attention, nursie.
The queen--|Gloriana Regina,
God's chosen vessel, the radiant one|who shines her light on us--
is at Greenwich today and prepared|during the evening's festivities...
to bestow her gracious favor|on my choice of wife.
And if we're late for lunch,|the old boot will not forgive!
So get you to my lady's chamber|and produce her with or without|her undergarments!
You cannot!|Not for the queen herself!
What will you have me do?|Marry you instead?
To be the wife|of a poor player.
Can I wish that for Lady Viola|except in my dreams?
And yet I would if I were free to follow|my desire in the harsh light of day.
You follow your desire|freely enough in the night.
- So, if that is all, to Greenwich I go.|- Then I'll go with you.
- You cannot. Wessex will kill you.|- I know how to fight.
Stage fighting.
Oh, Will.
As Thomas Kent,|my heart belongs to you,
but as Viola,|the river divides us,
and I must marry Wessex|a week from Saturday.
I'll drag her down|by the queen's command!
Good morning, my Lord.
My lady. The tide waits for no man,|but I swear it would wait for you.
Oh, here we come at last, my lord!
Are you bringing|your laundrywoman?
Her chaperone,|my lady's country cousin.
My, but you be|a handsome gallant,
just as she said.
You may call me|Miss Wilhelmina.
On a more fortuitous|occasion, perhaps.
Oh, my Lord, you will not shake me off.
Aye, she never needed me more.|I swear by your britches.
- Now?|- Now.
The queen asks for you.|Answer well.
- Is there a man?|- A man, my lord?
There was a man, a poet.|A theater poet, I think.
- Does he come to the house?|- A theater poet?
An insolent penny-a-page rogue!|Marlowe, he said. Christopher Marlowe.
- Has he been to the house?|- Marlowe?
Oh, yes. He is the one.
Lovely waistcoat.|Shame about the poetry.
That dog!
Your Majesty.
Stand up straight, girl.
I've seen you.
You are the one who comes to all|the plays at Whitehall, at Richmond.
Your Majesty.
What do you love so much?
- Your Majesty--|- Speak up, girl!
I know who I am.
Do you love stories|of kings and queens?
Of feats of arms?
Or is it courtly love?
I love theater.
To have stories acted for me|by a company of fellows is indeed--
They're not acted for you;|they are acted for me. And?
And I love poetry above all.
Above Lord Wessex?
My lord,|when you cannot find your wife,
you better look for her|at the playhouse.
Playwrights teach us|nothing about love.
They make it pretty; they make|it comical; or they make it lust.
They cannot make it true.
Oh, but they can.
I mean, Your Majesty, they--|they do not, they have... not,
but I believe|there is one who can.
My Lady Viola is young in the world.
Your Majesty is wise in it.
Nature and truth are the very enemies|of playacting. I'll wager my fortune.
I thought you were here|because you had none.
- Well, no one will take|your wager, it seems.|- Fifty pounds.
Fifty pounds?
A very worthy sum|on a very worthy question.
Can a play show us the very truth|and nature of love?
I bear witness to the wager...
and will be the judge of it|as occasion arises.
I have seen nothing|to settle it yet.
Are there|no more fireworks?
They would be soothing after the|excitements of Lady Viola's audience.
Have her, then,|but you are a lordly fool.
She's been plucked since I saw her last,|and not by you.
It takes a woman to know it.
Huh? Who's there?
You are playing|my Dr. Faustus this afternoon.
Don't spend yourself|in sport.
- What do you want, Kit?|- My Massacre at Paris is complete.
- What? You have the last act?|- If you have the money.
-Tomorrow.|-Then tomorrow you shall have the pages.
Oh, will you desist, madam!
- Oh!|- Twenty pounds on delivery.
Now, what is money to men like us?
Besides, if I need a play,|I have another waiting--|a comedy by Shakespeare.
Oh, Romeo.
- Gave it to Henslowe.|- Never!
Well, I'm to Deptford.|I leave you my respects, Miss Rosaline.
I gave Shakespeare|two sovereigns for Romeo.
You did, but Ned Alleyn|and the Admiral's Men have|the playing of it at the Rose.
Traitor and thief!
Oh, no.
By my head,|here comes the Capulets.
By my heel,|I care not.
Follow me close.|I will speak with them.
Gentlemen, good-den!|A word with one of you.
Are you going|to do it like that?
- By my head, here comes the Capulets.|- By my heel, I care not.
Follow me close.|I will speak to them.
Gentlemen, good-den!|A word with one of you.
And but one word with one of us?
Couple it with something;|make it a word and a blow.
Where's that thieving hack that|can't keep his pen in his own ink pot?
What is this rabble?
Draw, if you be a man!
And a dog.
Have privy, players! Please!
Oh! Not with my props!
- Will! What--|- A writer's quarrel.
Quite normal.
Stay here.
You are hurt.
I dreamed last night|of a shipwreck.
- You were cast ashore in a far country.|- Oh, not yet.
Not yet.
'Ey, we need that|for the balcony scene.
My investment!|Lambert!
A famous victory!
Kegs and legs open,|and on the house!
Oh, what happy hour.
- This is a tavern!|- It is also a tavern.
- I remember you. The poet!|- Yes, William the Conqueror.
One at a time. One at a time.
Oh, he's a pretty one. Tell me|your story while I tickle your fancy.
- It's a house of ill repute.|- It is, Thomas, but of good reputation.
Come.|There's no harm in a drink.
You are welcome to my best house.|Here's to the Admiral's Men.
- The Admiral's Men!|- The Admiral's Men!
The Admiral's Men!
Well, l--|I quite liked it.
Master Kent,
you have not yet|dipped your wick.
My "wick"?
Mr. Fennyman,|because you love the theater,|you must have a part in my play.
I am writing an apothecary,|a small but vital role.
My heavens.|I thank you.
What's the play about, then?
Well, there's this nurse--
Silence, silence, silence!
Master Shakespeare...
has asked me to play|the part of the apothecary.
The apothecary?
What is this story?|Where is the shipwreck?
How does the comedy end?
- By God, I wish I knew.|- By God, if you do not, who does?
Let us have pirates,|clowns and a happy ending,
or we shall send you|back to Stratford to your wife.
Will! Mr. Henslowe!|Gentlemen all!
A black day for us all!|There is news from a tavern in Deptford.
Marlowe is dead.
Stabbed to death|in a tavern at Deptford.
What have I done?
He was the first man among us.
A great light has gone out.
Forgive me.
God forgive me.
...Our Lord|Jesus Christ's sake.
One morning|in the month of May
From my cot I stray
Just at the dawning|of the day
I met with|a charming mai--
You look sad, my lady.|Let me take you riding.
- It's not my riding day, my lord.|- Bless me, I thought it was a horse.
I'm going to church.
Of course. I understand.|It is to be expected.
Yes, it is to be expected...|on Sunday.
And on a day of mourning.
I never met the fellow|but once at your house.
Who is dead, my lord?
Oh! Dear God, I did not think|it would be me to tell you.
Great loss to playwriting|and to dancing.
My lady.
- He is dead?|- Killed last night in a tavern.
Come then.|We'll say a prayer for his soul.
Who can remember sorrow
Spare me, dear ghost.
Spare me, dear ghost.
Spare me, for the love of Christ.|Spare me!
Oh, my love.
I thought you were dead.
It is worse.
I've killed a man.
Marlowe's touch|was in my Titus Andronicus,
and my Henry VI was a house built|on his foundations.
You never spoke|so well of him.
He was not dead before.
I would exchange all my plays to come|for all of his that will never come.
You lie.
You lie by this river|as you lied in my bed.
My love is no lie.
I have a wife, yes,
and I cannot marry the daughter|of Sir Robert De Lesseps.
You needed no wife come from Stratford|to tell you that,
and yet, you let me|come to your bed.
I loved the writer and gave up|the prize for a sonnet.
I was the more deceived.
Yes, you were deceived,
for I did not know|how much I loved you.
I love you, Will,
beyond poetry.
Oh, my love.
- You ran from me before.|- When I thought you dead,|I did not care...
about all the plays|that would never come,
only that I would|never see your face.
I saw our end,|and it will come.
- You cannot marry Wessex.|- If not you, why not Wessex?
If not Wessex, the queen|will know the cause,
- and there will be|no more Will Shakespeare.|- No. No.
But I will go to Wessex|as a widow from these vows,
as solemn as they|are unsanctified.
For killing Juliet's|kinsman Tybalt,
the one who killed|Romeo's friend Mercutio,
Romeo is banished.
- But the friar who married|Romeo and Juliet--|- Is that me?
You, Edward. The friar who married|them gives Juliet a potion to drink.
It is a secret potion.|It makes us seeming dead.
She is placed in the tomb|of the Capulets.
She will awake to life and love|when Romeo comes to her side again.
I have not said all.
By maligned fate, the message|goes astray which would tell|Romeo of the friar's plan.
He hears only|that Juliet is dead.
And thus he goes|to the apothecary...
That's me.
and buys a deadly poison.
He enters the tomb to say farewell|to Juliet who lies there cold as death.
He drinks the poison.
He dies by her side,
and then she wakes|and sees him dead.
And so Juliet|takes his dagger...
and then kills herself.
Well, that will have them|rolling in the aisles.
Sad... and wonderful.
I have a blue velvet cap|that'll do well.
I've seen just such a cap|on an apothecary.
Just so.
Yes, it will serve.
But there's a scene missing.
Between marriage|and death?
The play...|all written out for you.
I had the clerk|at Bridewell do it.
He has a good fist|for lettering.
There is a new scene.
- Will you read in for me?|- "Wilt thou be gone?|It's not yet near day.
It was the nightingale,|and not the lark,
that pierced the fearful|hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings|on yon pomegranate tree.
Believe me, love,|it was the nightingale."
"lt was the lark,|the herald of the morn;
no nightingale.
Look, love,|what envious streaks...
do lace the severing clouds|in yonder east.
Night's candles|are burnt out,
and jocund day|stands tiptoe...
on the misty mountaintops.
I must be gone and live,|or stay and die."
"Yon light is not daylight;|I know it, l.
It is some meteor|that the sun exhales...
to be to thee this night|a torchbearer...
to light thee|on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore, stay yet.
Thou needst not|to be gone."
"Let me be ta'en,
Iet me be put to death;
I am content,|so thou wilt have it so.
I have more care|to stay...
than will to go.
Come, death, and welcome.
Juliet wills it so."
You will go far, I fear.
I hope we work|together again.
"Such mortal drugs I have,|but Mantua's law...
is death, death to|any he that utters them."
Then him. Then me.
"Put-- Put this...
- in any liquid thing you will and--"|- Hah!
What is it? What is it?|What is it?
How silver sweet sound|lovers' tongues by night.
- Like soft music--|- Shakespeare!
Upstart inky pup!
I'll show you your place,|which is in hell!
- You're on my ground now!|- By God, I'll fight the lot of you!
I am more than enough!
Absent friends.
This is the murderer|of Kit Marlowe!
I rejoiced in his death|because I thought it was yours!|That is all I know of Marlowe!
Will? Uh, it's true.
It was a... tavern brawl.
Marlowe attacked|and got his own knife in the eye.
A quarrel about the bill.
The bill?|Oh, vanity, vanity!
Not the billing,|the bill!
Oh, God.
- I am free of it.|- Where is she?
Close it.
- My Lord Wessex.|- The Rose harbors the ass|that shits on my name!
Take it down|stone by stone.
I want it plowed into the ground|and sown with quicklime!
Mr. Tilney,|what is this?
Sedition and indecency.
Master of the Revels, sir.|She's over here.
- Where, boy?|- There.
I saw her bubbies.
So, a woman on the stage!
A woman!|I say this theater is closed!
Why, sir?
For lewdness|and unshamedfacedness!
And for displaying a female|on the public stage!
Not him, her!
That's who I meant.
- He's a woman.|- This theater is closed.
Notice will be posted!
Ned, I swear, I knew nothing of this.
- Nobody knew.|- He did.
I saw him kissing her bubbies.
It is over.
I'm sorry, Mr. Henslowe.
I wanted to be an actor.
I'm so sorry, Will.
You were... w-w--
Thank you.
"Let me put this in any|liquid thing you will and--"
Everything all right?
I would've been good.
- I would've been great.|- So would l.
We both would.
Lambert, kill him.
That can wait.
The Master of the Revels despises us all|for vagrants and peddlers of bombast.
But my father,|James Burbage,
had the first license to make a company|of players from Her Majesty,
and he drew from poets|the literature of the age.
We must show them|that we are men of parts.
Will Shakespeare has a play.
I have a theater.|The curtain is yours.
Will!|We'll be needing a Romeo.
Oranges!|Sweet oranges!
My ship is moored at bankside, bound for|Virginia on the afternoon tide.
Please do not weep, Lady De Lesseps.
You are gaining a colony.
And you, my lord,|are gaining 5,000 pounds...
by these drafts in my hand.
Would you oblige me|with 50 or so in gold...
just to settle my accounts|at the dockside?
Ah, the bride!
Good morning, my lord.
I see you are... open for business,|so let's to church.
Be gone!
Hup, hup, hup!
Oh, my lord!
- Be good to her, my lord.|- I will.
Oh, God bless you!
Thank you. Uh, let go.|There's a good nurse.
The tide will not wait!
Farewell!|You'll all be welcome in Virginia!
Candy apples!
Candy apples!
Buy my apples!
Thank you, sir.|Apples!
Is this, uh--|Is this all right?
Licentiousness is made a show!|Vice is made a show!
Vanity and pride|likewise made a show!
This is the very business|of show!
T-T-- T-Two--
T-T-T-T-- T-- T--
T-- T-T-Two households--
- We're lost.|- No, it will turn out well.
- How will it?|- I don't know. It's a mystery.
T-T-- T-- T-T--
T-- T--
Two households,
both alike in dignity,
in fair Verona,
where we lay our scene.
From ancient grudge break|to new mutiny,
where civil blood|makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins|of these two foes...
a pair of star-crossed lovers|take their life...
whose misadventured,|piteous overthrows...
doth with their death|bury their parents' strife.
...the which of you|with patient ears attend,
what here shall miss,|our toil shall strive to mend.
- Wonderful.|- Was it...
Gregory, on my word|we'll not carry coals.
No, for then|we should be colliers.
I mean, and we be|in choler we'll draw.
- Master Shakespeare.|- Luck be with you, Sam. Sam!
It's not my fault.|I could do it yesterday.
Do me a speech.|Do me a line.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow."
- Another little problem.|- What do we do now?
- The show must-- You know.|- Go on!
Juliet does not come on for 20 pages.|It will be all right.
- How will it?|- I don't know. It's a mystery.
- Fear me not.|- No, marry, I fear thee!
- Let them begin.|- I will frown as I pass by.
- Let them take it as they list!|- Nay, as they dare.
I will bite my thumb at them, which is|disgrace to them if they bear it.
Do you bite|your thumb at us, sir?
- I do bite my thumb, sir.|- Excuse me. Thank you.
- Thank you. Excuse me.|- Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
- Can we talk?|- Shh!
- We have no Juliet.|- No Juliet?
- No Juliet?|- It'll be all right, madam.
- What happened to Sam?|- Who are you?|- Thomas Kent.
Do you know it?
- I serve as good a man as you.|- Every word.
Hyah! Yah!
I'll go along,|no such sight to be shown,
but to rejoice in splendor|of mine own.
Where's my daughter?|Call her forth to me.
Now, by my maidenhead|at 12 years old,
I bade her come.
How now, who calls?
What, ladybird!
God forbid!|Where's this girl?
What, lamb!
What, ladybird!
What, Juliet!
How now, who calls?
- We'll all be put in the Clink.|- See you in jail.
Your mother--|Your mother.
Madam, I am here. What is your will?
This is the matter.
Nurse, give leave a while.|We must talk in secret.
Nurse, come back again. I have|remembered me; thou's hear our counsel.
Thou knowest my daughter's|of a pretty age.
- Faith, I know her age unto an hour.|- She's not 14.
Oh, I'll lay 14 of my teeth.|And yet my teen be it spoken,
I have but four--
Tell me, daughter Juliet,
how stands your dispositions|to be married?
It is an honor|that I dream not of.
Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!
I-- I'm sped.
Courage, man;|the hurt cannot be much.
Ask for me tomorrow,
you shall find me|a grave man.
"Such mortal drugs I have,
but Mantua's law is death|to any he that utters them."
Then him. Then me.
Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.|Stand not amazed!
The prince will doom thee death if thou|art taken. Hence, be gone, away!
Oh, I am Fortune's fool!
Why dost thou stay?
Which way ran he that killed Mercutio?
That murderer,|which way ran he?
- There lies that Tybalt.|- Up, sir. Go with me.
I charge thee|in the Prince's name obey.
Where are the vile beginners|of this fray?
"Oh, I am Fortune's fool."
You are married?
"lf you be married, my grave|is like to be my wedding bed."
Art thou gone so,
Iove, lord,
aye, husband, friend?
I must hear from thee|every day in the hour,
for in a minute|there are many days.
Oh, by this count|I shall be much in years ere again...
I behold my Romeo.
Oh, think'st thou|we shall ever meet again?
Methinks I see thee,|now thou art so low,
as one dead|in the bottom of a tomb.
Either my eyesight fails,|or thou look'st pale.
Then trust me, love,
in my eyes, so do you.
Dry sorrow|drinks our blood.
Take thou this vial,|being then in bed,
and this distilling liquor|drink thou off.
No warmth, no breath,|shall testify thou livest.
And in this borrowed likeness|of shrunk death...
thou shalt continue|two and forty hours,
and then awake|as from a pleasant sleep.
What ho! Apothecary!
Come hither, man.|I see that thou art poor.
Hold, there is 40 ducats.
- Let me have a dram of poison--|- Such mortal drugs I have,
but Mantua's law is death|to any he that utters them.
- Art thou so--|- My poverty, but not my will, consents.
I pay thy poverty|and not thy will.
Eyes, look your last.
Arms, take your last embrace.
And, lips,
oh, you,|the doors of breath,
seal with|a righteous kiss...
the dateless bargain...
to engrossing death.
Come, bitter conduct.
Come, unsavory guide.
Thou, desperate pilot,|now at once...
run on the dashing rocks|thy seasick weary bark.
Here's to my love!
Oh... true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick.
Thus with a kiss...
I die.
Where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,|and there I am. Where is my Romeo?
What's this?
A cup, closed|in my true love's hand?
Poison, I see,
hath been|his timeless end.
Oh, happy dagger,
this is thy sheath.
There rest...
and let me die.
A glooming peace|this morning with it brings;
the sun for sorrow|will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk|of these sad things.
Some shall be pardoned,
and some punished;
for never was a story|of more woe...
than this of Juliet...
and her Romeo.
- Yea! Yea!|- Yea!
- Bravo!|- Yea! Bravo!
- God save the queen!|- I arrest you in the name|of Queen Elizabeth!
Arrest who, Mr. Tilney?
Admiral's Men,|the Chamberlain's Men...
and every one of you ne'er-do-wells|that stand in contempt...
of the authority vested|in me by Her Majesty!
Contempt? You closed the Rose.|I have not opened it.
That woman is a woman!
A woman?|You mean that goat?
I'll see you all in Clink, in the name|of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth!
Mr. Tilney!
Have a care with my name.|You will wear it out.
The queen of England|does not attend...
exhibitions of public lewdness.
So something|is out of joint.
Come here, Master Kent.|Let me look at you.
Yes, the illusion|is remarkable.
And your error, Mr. Tilney,|is easily forgiven.
But I know something of|a woman in a man's profession.
Yes, by God,|I do know about that.
That is enough from you,|Master Kent.
If only Lord Wessex|were here.
He is, ma'am.
Y-Your Majesty.
There was a wager|I remember...
as to whether a play could show|the very truth and nature of love.
I think you lost it today.
You are an eager boy.|Did you like the play?
I liked it when she stabbed herself,|Your Majesty.
Master Shakespeare.
Next time you come to Greenwich,|come as yourself,
and we will speak|some more.
Your Majesty.
Why, Lord Wessex.
Lost your wife so soon?
Indeed I am a bride short,
and my ship sails for the new world|on the evening tide.
How is this to end?
As stories must|when love's denied--
with tears and a journey.
Those whom God|has joined in marriage...
not even I|can put asunder.
Master Kent.
Lord Wessex, as I foretold,|has lost his wife in the playhouse.
Go make your farewell|and send her out.
It's time|to settle accounts.
- How much was that wager?|- Fifty shillings.
Give it to Master Kent.|He will see it rightfully home.
Tell Master Shakespeare|something more cheerful next time...
for Twelfth Night.
Too late.
Too late.
My Lady Wessex.
A hired player|no longer.
Fifty pounds, Will,
for the poet of true love.
I'm done with theater.
The playhouse|is for dreamers.
Look what the dream|brought us.
It was we ourselves|did that.
And for my life to come,|I would not have it otherwise.
I have hurt you,|and I'm sorry for it.
If my hurt is to be|that you write no more,
then I shall be|the sorrier.
The queen commands|a comedy, Will,
for Twelfth Night.
A comedy.
What would my hero be?
The saddest wretch in all the kingdom,|sick with love?
It's a beginning.
Let him be a duke,|and your heroine--
Sold in marriage|and halfway to America.
At sea, then.|A voyage to a new world.
A storm.|All are lost.
She lands... on a...
vast and empty shore.
She's brought to the duke--
- Orsino.|- Orsino?
Good name.
But fearful of her virtue,|she comes to him dressed as a boy.
And thus is unable|to declare her love.
But all ends well.
How does it?
I don't know.
It's a mystery.
You will never age for me,
nor fade,
nor die.
Nor you for me.
Good-bye, my love.
A thousand times good-bye.
Write me well.
My story starts at sea,
a perilous voyage|to an unknown land.
A shipwreck.
The wild waters roar and heave.
The brave vessel|is dashed all to pieces,
and all the helpless souls|within her...
All save one:
a lady...
whose soul is greater|than the ocean,
and her spirit,|stronger than the sea's embrace.
Not for her a watery end,
but a new life beginning|on a stranger shore.
It will be a love story,
for she will be my heroine|for all time.
And her name will be Viola.
SLC Punk
SNL Best Of Eddie Murphy 1998
S Diary 2004
Saathiya CD1
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Shield The 2x01 - The Quick Fix
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Stargate SG1 1x01 Children of the Gods
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Stargate SG1 6x01 Redemption Part 1
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Stargate SG1 6x03 Descent
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Stargate SG1 6x22 Full Circle
Stargate SG1 7x01 Fallen
Stargate SG1 7x02 Homecoming
Stargate SG1 7x03 Fragile Balance
Stargate SG1 7x04 Orpheus
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Stargate SG1 7x06 Lifeboat
Stargate SG1 7x07 Enemy Mine
Stargate SG1 7x08 Space Race
Stargate SG1 7x09 Avenger 2 0
Stargate SG1 7x10 Birthright
Stargate SG1 7x10 Heroes II
Stargate SG1 7x11 Evolution I
Stargate SG1 7x12 Evolution II
Stargate SG1 7x13 Grace
Stargate SG1 7x14 Fallout
Stargate SG1 7x15 Chimera
Stargate SG1 7x16 Death Knell
Stargate SG1 7x17 Heroes I
Stargate SG1 7x19 Resurrection
Stargate SG1 7x20 Inauguration
Stargate SG1 7x21-22 The Lost City I n II
Starship Troopers (Special Edition)
Starship Troopers 2
Story Of A Kiss
Strada La
Strange aventure de Docteur Molyneux
Street Of Love And Hope (Nagisa Oshima 1959)
Street of shame (Akasen chitai)
Streetcar Named Desire A
Style Wars
Suicide Regimen
Sukces 2003
Summer Tale A 2000
Sunday Lunch (2003)
Super 8 Stories
Superman IV - The Quest for Peace
Surviving the Game
Swedish Love Story A (1970) CD1
Swedish Love Story A (1970) CD2
Sweetest Thing The (Unrated Version)
Swept Away
Swordsman III - The East is Red
Sylvester - Canned Feud (1951)
Sylvester - Speedy Gonzales (1955)
Sylvester and Elmer - Kit for Cat (1948)
Sylvester and Porky - Scaredy Cat (1948)
Sylvester and Tweety - Canary Row (1950)
Sylvester and Tweety - Putty Tat Trouble (1951)
Sylvester and Tweety - Tweetys SOS (1951)