tling my inspiration and making the mightiest wonder
of your reign a thing of nought? I have said that "not marble nor the
gilded monuments of princes shall outlive" the words with which I make
the world glorious or foolish at my will. Besides, I would have you
think me great enough to grant me a boon.

ELIZABETH. I hope it is a boon that may be asked of a virgin Queen
without offence, sir. I mistrust your forwardness; and I bid you
remember that I do not suffer persons of your degree (if I may say so
without offence to your father the alderman) to presume too far.

SHAKESPEAR. Oh, madam, I shall not forget myself again; though by my
life, could I make you a serving wench, neither a queen nor a virgin
should you be for so much longer as a flash of lightning might take to
cross the river to the Bankside. But since you are a queen and will
none of me, nor of Philip of Spain, nor of any other mortal man, I
must een contain myself as best I may, and ask you only for a boon of
State.

ELIZABETH. A boon of State already! You are becoming a courtier like
the rest of them. You lack advancement.

SHAKESPEAR. "Lack advancement." By your Majesty's leave: a queenly
phrase. _[He is about to write it down]._

ELIZABETH. _[striking the tablets from his hand]_ Your tables begin
to anger me, sir. I am not here to write your plays for you.

SHAKESPEAR. You are here to inspire them, madam. For this, among the
rest, were you ordained. But the boon I crave is that you do endow a
great playhouse, or, if I may make bold to coin a scholarly name for
it, a National Theatre, for the better instruction and gracing of your
Majesty's subjects.

ELIZABETH. Why, sir, are there not theatres enow on the Bankside and
in Blackfriars?

SHAKESPEAR. Madam: these are the adventures of needy and desperate
men that must, to save themselves from perishing of want, give the
sillier sort of people what they best like; and what they best like,
God knows, is not their own betterment and instruction, as we well see
by the example of the churches, which must needs compel men to
frequent them, though they be open to all without charge. Only when
there is a matter of a murder, or a plot, or a pretty youth in
petticoats, or some naughty tale of wantonness, will your subjects pay
the great cost of good players and their finery, with a little profit
to boot. To prove this I will tell you that I have written two noble
and excellent plays s