The Quality of Mercy Upstart Crow

Ah, a toast, Will. A toast to the age of exploration,

and for once I'm paying.

Every ship returning from the New World brings riches to Albion's shore.

Everyone's coining it in!

You've got that right, Kit. Hmm! I'm making plenty gold myself.

You should get a piece of it, Will.

Timid bull don't pleasure no cow.

No, thank you, Lucy.

I'm aware that the city's sharp boys in their Italian-designed tights

are coining it big on the New World commodity market,

also, that the occasional bonus even trickles down

to smaller investors like yourselves, but I'm a conservative sort of bloke.

I prefer to keep my money in my puffling pants.

Rubbish! You told me you were investing in Burbage's new theatre.

Bricks and mortar, Kit. Very different. Solid. Respectable.

Why invest in malodorous leaves and tuberous root vegetables

from a mosquito swap in north Virginia, when you can build here in London,

using bricks made of solid dung and straw?

Well, it's your loss, mate.

Robert Greene is setting up a syndicate

to buy the cargo off the next ship that docks.

He needs investors and - mmph! - this fella's in!

Me too. I'm saving up to buy a warship,

so I can cruise the Ivory Coast freeing slaves.

THEY CHEER I've often wondered

how you won your own freedom, Lucy.

Perchance I'll immortalise the story in a play.

I bribed my way out with a diamond ring,

which I cut from the man who first stole me from my home.

Goodness! You cut off his finger?

It wasn't on his finger.

KIT CHUCKLES

Thoroughly invigorating woman.

I'd miss her if she did go off and become a lady pirate.

Ahh!

Quid agis, Marlowe?

Omne bene, gratias, Greene.

Ni illud velum sic habis bonum mane, Shakespeare.

Um...um...wait, I know this.

Ah, yes, I was forgetting.

You speak but little Latin.

Sad. Come, now, Marlowe. Have you money for your investment?

I would fain not stay a moment longer in these immoral surroundings than I must.

Hey! Mr Greene! Here again so soon?

Hey! Phwoar!

You are a naughty boy.

I know not what you mean.

I am here to speak to Mr Marlowe.

'Tis true, I occasionally visit this establishment,

but only in order to raise up fallen women with Bible-reading.

It is unlike you to take the missionary position.

The money, Marlowe.

Da mihi pecunia.

Hic pecunia mea.

Just bung that on whatever's in the next ship.

Mr Shakespeare, vis ad obsedendam in unico tempores opportunitate?

-Um... Vis - that's "would".

-He's asking if you want to invest.

Oh, uh, right. Well...

Non ego...non.

Non...quick...

tibi...

..keepus cashus...

No matter. Most of the cargo is already sold.

The sacks of potatoes are spoken for, likewise the bags of tobacco.

Before long, the only thing left on that boat

will be a couple of cases of syphilis sive morbus Gallicus.

MARLOWE AND GREENE CHUCKLE

Oh, sorry, Will. You wouldn't get it.

Latin joke.

Need to have gone to Cambridge.

CAT MEOWS

Deum, daem, dadum,

dadum, dadum da bloody dum.

It's no good, Kate.

It won't stay in that which supports a hat but be not a hook,

has a crown but be not a king,

and is fringed with hair but be not my Bolingbrokes.

Pardon?

He means his head, love.

You will, Mr Shakespeare, you will.

You already have your schoolboy Latin to build on.

I taught myself from scratch.

Yes, but I think it's easier for girls,

their heads being otherwise so empty that...

that there's more room to learn things.

Yes, because that's really logical(!)

I don't know why you care, anyway.

I mean, how many dead Romans are you going to be chatting with?

Apart from the obvious social advantages of knowing Latin,

all legal documents are writ in the language of the Caesars.

If I'm to be a theatre owner, I must be able to read the contracts.

Theatre owner?

Such an exciting idea, Mr Shakespeare.

Isn't it? Yes. Burbage must move his productions to south of the river

to escape the wrath of the God-prodding pure-titties who run the city.

Oh, I hate those God-prodding pure-titties.

They're so grim. There's no singing, no dancing...

Yes, and most crucially, no point!

I searched the Bible in vain

for the passage that tells us that putting horseshoe nails

on the inside of your codpiece will give you a front-row cloud in heaven.

Still, the pure-titties' righteous fury could be the making of me,

for Burbage has asked me to come in with him as investor and producer.

Such a joyful happenstance!

And what's more,

he has hinted that if I can but finish my great teen romance in time,

-it will open the new house.

-Why don't you just tell him it's finished?

-Because it isn't.

-It is if you want it to be.

Liberate yourself. Just stop writing.

Put a big full stop, and you're done.

But nothing will be concluded of plot or character.

Trust me, no-one will notice.

They're not really following, anyway.

Your plays are too long.

I mean, Richard III was nearly four hours. That's just wrong.

People cheered.

Yeah, they were glad it was over!

Didn't you get that?

Bottom, your barbs do bite most bitterly.

Well, no-one else will tell you except me. You give 'em too much.

Kate, you don't agree with this, do you?

Well, they are quite long, Mr Shakespeare.

I mean, it's all great.

It's just sometimes, less is more.

A short play's a good play.

You don't want Juliet's balls dropping halfway through the balcony scene.

Well, that's true.

And 'tis ever a danger with these beardless youths

that we must employ to play the ladies.

Of course, if an actual girl were playing the role...

Oh, God, here we go. Would you let it drop, woman?

Girls can't act.

No, no, Bottom. I confess I'm beginning to come round to Kate's way of thinking.

I would love to hear my Juliet in the true voice of a maid.

Sadly, we're constrained by law.

It's so frustrating!

A woman may not disport herself on stage for fear she be thought a trollop.

It does seem silly, but there it is.

If ever I am to hope to sneak you into Burbage's company,

it must be in disguise. You must make him believe that you be that

which, though it hath teats, hath no breasts,

and though it hath balls, be not a game of tennis.

-You mean a man, right?

-Yes, I mean a man.

A bit tortured, that one, if I'm honest, Master.

You have to let 'em roll and then edit later.

Now, I must be on my way.

I'm to meet Burbage to discuss our great venture.

-Let me come.

-You, Kate? How so?

I speak Latin, I understand compound interest.

I can be your secretary.

But you're a girl. Girls can't be secretaries. It's unheard of.

Exactly!

And so I shall come disguised as a man,

and if I can do that without discovery,

then surely I can audition as a boy to play Juliet?

Well, I suppose I could do with a Latin speaker on my team.

Oh, no. I don't like this at all.

This is just rubbish, this is.

You have an objection, Bottom?

Yes, I have got a flippin' objection.

I can't read, I can't write, I own nothing and I'm sewn into my underwear,

but at least I've got more rights and status than any bloomin' bird!

You start edging women into the workplace,

then where's that going to leave all of us pig-ignorant blokes?

Now, Kate, be ever vigilant.

The tiniest mistake could see you unmasked as a weak and timorous girlie.

What sort of mistake? Any hints?

Well, do not, under any circumstances, discuss your feelings.

Not discuss feelings?

What do men talk about?

Sex, beer and sport.

On the subject of feelings,

if a rehearsal begins, do not cry at the sad bits,

and if blood sports be suggested, and a pack of dogs

be set upon a tethered goat for fun,

you must cry, "Kill! Kill!"

not, "But he looks so sweet. Why do we have to hurt him?"

And, of course, there's the most important factor of all in pretending to be a man.

What's that?

I must ne'er be seen to perform a multitude of tasks

all at the same moment.

For 'tis a fact well known that men cannot perform a multitude of tasks

all at the same moment.

Actually, that's a fundamental misunderstanding on the part of you girls.

In fact, men can perform a multitude of tasks all at the same moment.

We just prefer to sit around drinking beer.

So, Master Shakespeare, we come, as promised, to discuss plans

for our new theatre and... Who's this?

Cuthbert, my secretary. A young fellow who would make a life in the theatre.

-DEEP VOICE:

-Wotch, you bunch of hugger-tuggers!

Anyone get any minge last night?

Boo-hey! I love minge.

Seems a very pleasant fellow, Will.

Yes, come and sit down, Cuthbert.

Tell you what, perhaps later on we'll go bear-baiting, eh?

Brilliant! I certainly won't cry!

So, Will, as you know,

the God-prodding pure-titties in the city have forced our company

beyond London's walls, so we plan to build south of the river, in Southwark.

Yes. England's first purpose-built theatre.

Think of it, Burbage! We're actually inventing the form.

Absolutely.

It falls upon us to lay the very foundation stone

of theatre architecture.

So, a playhouse.

What is it?

A big space...for people to stand in.

Yes. That's a good beginning.

Yes. What else? What else?

A stage at one end, probably?

A stage, for certain. A stage.

This is so exciting,

and since our building will be only for the production of plays

and not also for boozing and bear-baiting, as has been the custom to date,

there's no limit to the effects we can install!

Traps, drapes, screens -

with such devices great battles and mighty tempests can be presented.

Hmm, yeah? Really?

HE GRUNTS

-SQUEAKY VOICE:

-Not sure.

You have an observation to make, Kempe?

Just saying. Battles? Tempests? Bit dated?

Wrong thing to say? Don't care. Said it now, so...

Dated, Kempe?

Not going to lie. All that shouting,

all that, "Oh, I'm a king and my army's all dead..." That's not relatable. That's not interesting.

What do you suggest?

Well, instead of setting the big scene in a battle,

why not set it in the king's counting house?

In an office?

Observational, see?

Minimal is the new epic.

Yeah? Instead of having heroic characters struggling with war and murder,

they could all be really ordinary and worried about really tiny things,

like, "Ooh, did you use my quill?" "Oh, was that your quill?"

"Well, yeah. That was my quill. It's got my name on it."

"Oh, sorry."

"Well, you can borrow it, but if you ask, maybe. Please respect my stuff."

That sort of thing. It'd be brilliant.

Do shut up, Kempe.

We must consider the auditorium too.

We'll need a toilet, methinks.

Will's plays be very long.

Very, very long.

Incredibly long. Like mad long.

They're not long!

A bit long, Will.

Yes, we'll definitely need a big trench out the back to piss in.

And numerous closeted stalls for the ladies,

20 or 30, I'd say, otherwise there'll be a queue.

The ladies? You think we should cover for them?

Well, of course, yeah.

While there be no ladies on stage, many do attend the play.

Yes, well, I suppose we could knock up a little shed

and put a bucket in it.

So, the conveniences.

A 20-yard pissoir for the men,

and a single bucket in a cupboard for the ladies.

Mr Burbage, a single stall?

Surely you can see that in times of greatest traffic, such as the interval,

a large queue will form of angry ladies with their legs crossed.

Remember, sirrah, that what we design here today

will set the pattern for theatres across future centuries.

So, as I say...

..a 20-yard pissoir for the men

and a single bucket in a cupboard for the ladies.

(Have a care, young Kate,)

(for your outrageous special pleading for your own sex will unmask you.)

-(It's just so unfair!)

-Right, lunch!

I have a meat pie.

-Meat pie.

-Meat pasty.

Meat pie.

Oh, I've made a lovely little salad, which you're all welcome to pick at.

Just some fresh leaves and carrot goujons.

Also some rose petals, just for scent and colour, but you can eat them.

You're a bloody girl, aren't you?

An ambitious little bitchington trying to steal my job!

No. Minge! Flange!

-HIGH VOICE:

-Anal!

We get one like you every fortnight.

Silly little girls pretending to be boys,

in the pathetic hope that they'll be as good at being girls as boys are.

Be gone, you foul sluttage.

And find yourself a husband!

So, theatre design complete. Now,

if you want to be in on this venture, you've got to invest.

Four quid minimum shares. Are you in or out?

In, Burbage. I journey to Stratford this very e'en to get the cash!

-Hoorah.

-For there is a tide in the affairs of men

which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Meaning?

Well, I'm just reiterating, really...

that I'm going to Stratford to get the cash.

His stuff's too long.

-Oh, very long.

-Very, very long.

HEN CLUCKS

God, what a journey!

Lost a whole half-day stuck behind a seriously unhelpful shepherd,

who simply refused to pull his sheep over to the side of the lane.

Let me tell you, when we finally did edge alongside,

we all made some seriously rude gestures out of the carriage window.

Which was satisfying, but considering it took three hours to pass him,

rather tiring on the arm.

Well, I'm glad you're back, love.

Your "dad jobs" list's getting longer than a pure-titty's sermon.

Aye, mistress.

Such was the longing I felt for thee,

so fervently did tug the bonds of love

that I must needs forswear all other thoughts and hasten to thy side.

What d'you want?

The family savings.

Our savings?

Yep. All of them.

The whole four quid.

What about our plans to buy New Place?

And Susanna's dowry? She be 13 and thus fast approaching marrying age.

And she's such a gobby little bitchington,

I really don't think we're going to off-load her for less than ten bob.

Shut up! God, you're so weird.

Everything I do is wrong. Shut up!

And I've told you ten times to move your cup and plate

and tidy away your clothes.

I'm busy.

Why is it always me?

Ask the twins. Shut up.

'Tis true, Wife.

Unless we can happen upon a youth who finds selfish lethargy

and impenetrable self-righteousness attractive,

we may be stuck with her for quite a while.

I didst not ask to be brought forth

-into the world.

-What do you mean, you want our savings?

I want them in order to double them.

Treble them.

Burbage and I intend to build a theatre on the south bank.

Wife...

nearly all the money's gone.

Our savings? Stolen?

Yes. We had four pounds, and now there's only one.

Oh, the shame of it.

Your own son.

Mum?

He took it. Your father.

To think, me, an Arden, married to a thief!

Oh, yeah, cos it's all about you, isn't it?

He's been fined again. Illegal wool-trading.

He bought and sold sheepskin without paying the excise.

Oh, the shame of it!

The very shame.

Dad, be this true? Are you become a criminal?

Criminal?

Well, depends how you define "criminal".

Somebody who has broken the law.

But which law?

Real law or natural law?

Real law.

What about all the bankers and traders

who've tempted thousands to lose everything

in a fruitless search for mythical El Dorados?

They're the real criminals.

Yes. If by "the real" you mean "also".

None of this makes it all right for you to steal my life savings!

Look, I was desperate!

When you turned down my idea

for a dad-son double act, it was the last straw.

This is my fault?!

Well, I do think you might have considered the idea, William.

I still think we can make it work.

I have to find three pounds in the next week,

and shameless, self-indulgent, cross-generational fame-whoring

ain't gonna do the job!

So, Mr Shakespeare,

you wish to invest after all?

Yes. I...I have a pound

and would hope for a great return, as you promised.

I also said you should hurry, sir.

All the investments are made - the potatoes, the tobacco, the spices.

But what about those cases of syphilis whatnot you mentioned?

You said there might be some of those left.

And so does this upstart crow's lack of education condemn him.

I have him in my clutches!

Hmm...

Well, now, let me see.

Yes, it seems, in fact, there are a number of cases of syphilis reported

on a ship just docked.

Then I would beg you, let me invest in one.

By all means.

Although, caveat emptor. For the purposes of my duty of care,

you are aware of the nature of that in which you would invest?

Who cares? It's been imported from America.

We in England will instantly adopt anything from America.

What is a potato but a starchy tuber?

What is tobacco but a dried weed?

What is a corn cob but a big, yellow, bobbly dildo?

I would invest in the very next case of syphilis that be brought ashore.

I have a pound.

I fear the minimum stake would be two.

I have but one.

The trap shuts.

Why, sir, let me lend you another.

Really?

You'd do that for me?

And for surety on the capital?

Name it. My house? My wife?

No, sir, nothing so onerous.

Let us just say that, for my one pound,

I would want merely one pound back...

Well, that seems very reasonable.

..of your flesh.

So, the investment's sorted.

I'm off to the Red Lion.

Burbage is conducting preliminary auditions for my Juliet

and if I'm not careful, he'll choose the wrong boy.

Oh, Mr Shakespeare, let me try again. Please!

Kate, I've told you.

In order to be a girl, you must first be a boy.

Give me another go.

Give me some hints.

I just need to get deeper into character.

Well...all right.

Supposing we go to the tavern where the new American potato tuber be served,

diced into batons and fried.

-Oh, God, I love them!

-Aye, all men do. Women also.

And here, Kate, lies the rub, for without care you will be exposed.

How so, Mr Shakespeare?

When the diced potato tuber be offered, do not refuse to order your own,

only then to steal it from another's plate.

Oh, my God, I so do that.

For then will all at table know you are a girl.

I'll be so careful.

Will you also lend me another suit of clothes

so they don't recognise me from last time?

All right. But we have to hurry.

Kate, you must decide!

I can't! I can't.

Every garment from the wardrobe hath been hurled upon the bed

and yet you still claim

that you have not a single thing with which to robe yourself!

Full, round and plumpish all do make me look.

But, Kate, can't you see this is a case in point?

As with the diced, fried tuber-batons.

Girls can't stop being girlie.

'Tis at the very core of their nature.

A man would simply grab the first pair of puffling pants to hand,

give them the sniff test,

and if they be not actually rotted with his dung, shove em on!

I've only ever owned a single pair!

I've had these on for 15 years.

You must decide.

All right. Which do you think?

-These or these?

-Erm, those.

So you hate these? You think I look full, round and plumpish in these?

No, you asked me, by Jehovah's nostrils!

You...you forced a choice upon me and then you turned that choice into a slight!

Was ever there a thing so girlie?

-This is impossible!

-All right. I'll go with these.

Finally. And actually, for what it's worth,

I think you look very nice in those puffling pants.

Yeah, right! As if! I do not.

You're obviously lying.

Oh, God. Look, Kate, I'm sorry, but I'm not doing this.

It's quite clear that you can never convince as a man

and, therefore, there is no possibility of your ever earning the opportunity

to convince as a woman. Now, I have far more pressing concerns.

You wait, Mr Shakespeare. I will find a way to prove my worth.

Kate, gentle Kate, thou provest thy worth

every day with thy joyous smile,

thy girlish laugh and the soft, tender grace

that all Eve's daughters bring to the rough world of men.

Oh, Mr Shakespeare, you are like he who gives support,

like that which sweetens all that it covers.

You are a great poet and are like the heavens.

Kate, your words move me, but I would fain know their meaning.

Why, he who gives support is a patron,

that which sweetens all that it covers be but icing,

a great poet is a bard,

and the heavens, of course, be starred.

Put them together and you get...

Patron...icing...bard...starred.

I'll leave it with you.

God! Her and her women's emancipation stuff.

Yeah.

Talk about having a diced, fried tuber-baton on her shoulder...

I think I'm outward-going and with a great personality.

It's my dream to play Juliet, and I really, really want it.

Thank you. Next.

But you haven't heard my backstory!

My mum's just got the plague!

I was bullied at dame school.

I'm bringing up my sister's son.

I said next!

You'll see.

I'll be a futtocking star,

and then you'll look like dicks.

Crappage! Crappage. They all be crappage.

At this rate, our theatre will be built before we find our Juliet.

But you've got your bloody Juliet. Me!

Except, oh, that's right, once an actor who plays women reaches a certain age,

the roles dry up.

My dear Condell, Juliet be but a maid of 13.

And Romeo be 14, yet no doubt Burbage here will be playing him.

Oh, yes, it's all right for actors who play men.

They can be geriatric and still get romantic leads.

But we actors who play women are tossed away

in favour of younger actors who play women.

Enough of this carping.

We've a play to cast and a theatre to build.

Speaking of which, Will, have you your four pounds investment?

At any moment, Burbage.

I expect news of my investment on the hour.

Mr Shakespeare, we just got a note from the Board of Trade.

Ah, brilliant!

Not brilliant. I'm ruined.

My investment was in twice-poxed sailors.

Your ignorance condemns you, sirrah.

Syphilis sive morbus Gallicus

is but the recently coined term for the French disease,

but since the name be conjured by the poet and astronomer Hieronymus Fracastorius

in his Latin lyrical verse cycle,

an oikish country bum-snot like you knows not of it.

I'm sorry, Burbage. I'm broke, and cannot invest in your theatre.

Oh, I think your problems are a little more urgent than that, sirrah.

I would have my pound back, and if it be not in monies, then let it be in flesh!

But I...I have no monies.

Then these officers of the law will keep you safe

until a court of law orders that my debt be paid!

But, Greene, a pound of flesh cut from a man means certain death.

Hmm...yes.

I'll get a lawyer! I'll fight this case!

Your case is hopeless, sirrah!

I have my signed bond.

There is not a man in London who will represent you.

Take him away.

All rise for His Honour Sir Robert Roberts, judge presiding.

Be seated.

Who will speak for the prosecution?

I, my lord, will prosecute.

Being a Cambridge graduate, I am of course a qualified lawyer.

And who will speak for the defence?

I fear none, my lord, for this case is so hopeless

that there be not a single man in London who will speak for this wretch.

-DEEP VOICE:

-Not so, sir.

I am a man...and a lawyer.

And I will defend this wronged man.

You, sirrah, who are you?

I am Cuthbert Capulet, your honour.

Do you wish to argue that Master Greene should not take his bond?

Go for it, good Kate.

Nail him with some brilliant Latin stuff.

On the contrary, my lord,

if Mr Greene wishes to cut a pound of flesh from my client then he must,

for 'tis his legal right.

-What?!

-Master Greene,

you may extract your bond.

Oh, how sweet

will be this unkindest cut of all.

Please, Master Greene. The quality of mercy is not strained.

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the earth beneath.

Not even iambic pentameter can save you now!

Tarry a little.

There is something else.

This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood.

I beg your pardon?

Take then thy bond.

Take thou thy pound of flesh, but in the cutting it,

if thou doth shed one drop of Christian blood...

No blood?! How can I avoid it?

Exactly, sirrah.

If you must take your flesh, you must needs also steal blood,

and thus would my client die.

Well, I must say, this does alter things a bit.

Will you still take your bond, Master Greene?

I shall be happy enough to try you straight'way after for murder.

But, my lord, this Capulet's argument is utterly spurious!

Why, flesh contains blood!

Flesh be not flesh without it. You do not visit the butcher and say,

"A pound of beef, and don't forget to leave the blood in," do you?

Actually, that's very true. Master Greene is entirely and absolutely right.

Your whole pound-of-flesh argument is in fact wafer-thin rubbish!

I'm sorry, Mr Shakespeare, you're going to have to let him carve a steak off.

But I'll die!

Hmm. Sorry. Right, lunch recess.

A moment, Mr Greene!

Your honour, may I approach the bench?

Come.

-NORMAL VOICE:

-Just wanted to say, nice gown.

Really loving it.

-SOFT VOICE:

-Thanks so much. I thought it might make me look a bit full, round and plumpish.

So, a salad-eater who thinks a perfectly nice gown makes him look fat.

Or should I say, makes HER look fat?

You're a girl!

It's true!

Ever since I first came to London as a young girl,

I've known that it's a man's world.

And to prosper I must needs become one.

Please, do not expose me.

Don't worry, I get it. I really do.

Just let my client walk and your secret's safe.

Case dismissed!

-What?!

-Costs awarded against the plaintiff.

-Set at...

-I need four quid.

..four pounds!

-I love your shoes.

-Thanks, Judge Robert.

Please...

call me Bob.

Kate saved my sweet white country arsington and no mistake.

If the judge hadn't turned out to be another woman,

I'd be a couple of giblets short of a playwright.

Yeah, well, it's lucky you didn't have to rely on

her stupid pound-of-flesh argument.

It's bloody obvious flesh contains blood.

If the end of one of your play's hinged on such a half-baked notion,

all would boo and jeer and call thee a total wankington.

Hmm, yes.

Absolutely.

Although it might work.

You know, if I buried it in a lot of iambic pentameter.

Well, it's your call, love.

You're the genius.

Yes, Wife. I absolutely am.