Original subtitles

Ingrate whore!

Stinksome strumpet!

Foul and false be thy black heart!

But blood-red will be thy shroud!

Dad, it's your line.

Get one of the women to read it.

Neither of the women can read.

I wouldn't if I could. It's a common business.

Well, then, get Susanna to read it.

Can't think why else you taught her.

There's no point asking Sue for help. She be of teening years

and thus a grumpy little bitchington.

I don't why you have to write these new plays, anyway.

What's wrong with the old plays? The mumming plays?

Theatre's moving on, Dad.

There's only so many times you can laugh at the Lord of Misrule

whacking the naughty Turk with a jingly stick...

while... while St George shows the dragon his bottom.

Gets me every time, that one.

Will is trying to do his play, which, believe it or not,

I'm actually following.

Come on, love. Queen Liz is threatening Queen Mary in the Tower.

Absolutely.

Right, yes, here we go.

Blood-red will be thy shroud!

And then a nobleman rushes in...

Majesty, I beseech thee, must not a queen this murder do!

Shouldn't that be, "A queen must not do this murder"?

Well, yes, it should, but I always think a sentence sounds better

if you mix up the words a bit.

It's one of my best tricks.

Sounds really try-hard to me.

Or, put more poetically,

to me sounds hard try really.

See? Much better.

Queen Elizabeth didn't chop Mary's head off herself, you daft worzel.

She were topped at Fotheringhay.

Grandad is right about the beheading. Queen Liz never done it.

Yes, my love. I am aware of the facts

but as a dramatist, I take the view that a fat man with an axe

saying, "Close your eyes, love," -- thwack! --

isn't quite as compelling theatre

as frigid Liz bitch-slapping her cutesome Caledonian cuz Mary

in a bit of queen-on-queen action.

So creepy, Dad!

It does sound a bit creepy. You're better than that, duck.

Look, I work in show business, girls.

Sex sells! We need bums on seats.

Or, in this case, bum on throne...

because -- mark this -- Her Majesty has commanded Burbage

to produce a play for her feast

on the third Sunday after Lammington Eve.

The Queen? That is posh.

Which is why I'm writing my history of Gloriana and her traitorous cuz.

It doth flatter Her Majesty most shamelessly.

I only came home for some peace

and quiet so that I can finish my play and...

Don't you dare, poor Mistress Clucky.

Whenever you come home with the muse upon you, we get no eggs for a week.

Her arse be going balder faster than your bonce.

I am not going bald -- I have low eyebrows.

And my dumplings aren't droopy --

I've just got a very high belly button(!)

Ooh, shut up, Mum. You're so gross.

Here's your quill on the table, where you left it.

Oh, wondrous wife. Whene'er I lose a thing, you always know its place.

Not so much as being wondrous, doll,

as not being a clueless, futtocking arse-mungel.

You're a common woman, Anne Shakespeare, a very common woman!

Why do you want to write about Scotch Mary, anyway?

Yeah, Dad. Why don't you write a play about normal people?

Because normal people are boring.

The crowd wants plays about posh people.

They want gangs of geographically named dukes who wander on at random

and say, "Come, Sussex, Oxford and Northampton!

"Let us to York, there to do battle with Surrey, Cornwall,

"Solihull and Basingstoke!"

People might enjoy something a bit more realistic.

There's plenty of drama in real life.

If you want to write tragedy, why not write about the plague?

The plague?

I can see people just flocking

to watch a drama about crowds of the living dead

wandering around with their flesh falling off(!)

I'd go.

Caesar, I beg you, go not to the capital today.

Woe! Woe!

Come on, I can take it.

I know. I need to dig deeper, explore further.

Kate, drop it. You can't be an actor.

Why? Because I'm only the landlady's daughter?

It in't that. You just don't sound like a girl.

- But I am a girl. - Yeah, but you can't act one, love.

We've been through this.

It takes a bloke.

Women aren't clever enough.

- Quae mihi quia ego stulta. - You what?

It's Latin for "such a shame to be an ignorant woman".

Live with it, love.

Can you at least give me some performance notes?.

All right. Well, your voice, for starters.

It's too nice.

It needs to be all raw and squeaky, like this.

Caesar, I beg you, go not into the capital today.

Well, what about my physicality?

Surely at least I move like a girl?

Well, I suppose.

A bit. Although it'd be better with

two half-coconuts shoved down your bodice.

Except they wouldn't fit, would they?

No room for falsies cos of your realies.

Such cruel irony(!)

Ah, Kate! Are you here? Splendid.

Bottom, ale and pie.

Good morrow'd be nice.

Oh, terrible journey.

Some pasty-brained arse-mungel

decided to kill himself on the track.

Ohh.

I hate that.

So selfish. I mean, jump in a lake!

Eat some hemlock! Fall on your sword!

Agitate a large bear with a small stick!

Just don't throw yourself under the bloody carriage in front of mine!

Selfish bastible.

They didn't close the road?

Of course they closed the bloody road!

I mean, why, for God's sake?

Just why?

The man is dead.

There is a large cart track running from his crutch to his cranium.

Scrape him up and put him in a bag.

Just scrape him up and put him in a bag!

But, oh, no. That would mean passing up

the opportunity to drive the public insane with frustration

and, let's face it, this is England, so that ain't gonna happen.

So frustrating.

And to top it all, our stalled coach

had to take on passengers

from the one under which the selfish bastible had hurled himself.

Suddenly, I find myself squeezed next to an oafish groundling

who spent the entire journey stroking his porker.

I suppose it passes the time.

A pig, Bottom. A pig.

He did carry home bacon for his daughter's dowry,

and the beast crawled with vermin.

'Twas not so much a pig that had fleas

as fleas that had a pig!

Whenever I crush fleas,

I always use the time to practise my dancing.

As you know, music and dance are key skills for actors.

Kate...

Stop it now.

We go through this 17 times a week.

I know I've said I'd help

but you can't be an actor.

You're a girl.

Where would you put the coconuts?

That's what I said.

So unfair!

Morning, all! Let myself in. Kind of go where I please. It's just easier.

Oh, Kit! No, no. Always welcome! Always.

- Good morrow, Mr Marlowe. - Mistress Kate.

- Make yourself at home. - Yeah, did that.

It's brilliant to see you, Kit.

You're so cool and confident.

Being your mate always makes me feel a bit more cool and confident.

Of course it does. So, whisper is you're writing another play.

Good work, that man. I can't think how you find the energy.

Actually, I have several on the go at present,

alongside my teen romance. Mainly just ideas.

The Taming Of The Vole,

which I quite like.

Seventeen Gentlemen Of Verona.

That... That needs trimming.

A Midsummer Night's Whimsical Old Tosh.

Still looking for the big idea there.

I've told you. Just say it's a dream.

You can get away with any old dung-balls if you say it's a dream.

Exactly, Bottom.

And I hope my quill does wither on Miss Clucky's arse

before I resort to such a lazy cop-out.

It's all a bit "so what?" so far, Will. You got any more?

The Merchant Of Guildford?

- Kind of works. - Kind of doesn't.

A Not Very Funny Story About Errors.

Ouch.

They all need work, of course,

but I have one finished, and I'm really pleased with it.

The Tragical History Of Mary, Queen Of Scots.

Oh, yes, now we're talking! I'm loving that.

And such a strong part for a woman.

You mean, for a man playing a woman.

- Women can't act, obviously. - That's what I said.

- Where would you put the coconuts? - No room!

Please, Mr Shakespeare.

I would work so hard.

I know I am only an ignorant woman

but I have read Historia Gentis Scotorum

and so know something of the Stuart queen's back story.

A clever girl's an ugly girl, Kate.

Kate, let it lie.

Women are not allowed to act.

It's so cruel to live in times when women are denied everything!

Birds, eh?

So emotional.

They're second-class citizens. Get over it.

Anyway, Kit, I was telling you about my new play.

It is to be presented to the Master of the Revels

that it may be performed before Her Majesty.

Oh, yes! That'll be great!

Except probably better if I presented it. Just a thought.

Here we go, Master. Be strong.

Marlowe, I've told you, I'm not writing you any more plays.

Come on, Will.

You owe me. It's me that got your

work before the public in the first place.

By sticking your name on it!

It was the only way. What were you?

A country bum-snot fresh off the coach.

Nobody took you seriously.

Exactly.

I was but a jobbing actor when I gave you

Tamburlaine and Doctor Faustus,

but now I want credit for my own work.

A bit selfish, Will.

Not very attractive.

Kit, be reasonable. Mine is a unique voice.

Well, unique-ish. I mean, all you really do is jumble up the words.

Well, I... I admit, I do do a fair bit of word-jumbling,

and I'm not apologising for that, but also, I create language,

inventing phrases that I'm sure one day

will be in common usage. Look here.

Mary Stuart, who is twice damned,

- being both Scottish and French... - Hmm.

.. she I have dubbed

a frog-jock.

Ooh.

Fair play. That is pretty good.

That's just the sort of line I should have written.

Hmm. But you didn't.

Don't quibble, Will. It makes you look small.

Come on. Give us a play.

Because of you, everyone thinks I'm this brilliant poet guy

when, actually, I couldn't be bothered to rhyme "dove" with...

See?

Lost interest already.

Verse is just not my gig.

But why do you care that people think you're a poet?

Y-You're a famous roister.

The most popular man in the city.

Your name is like a cold sore.

Pardon?

It's on everybody's lips.

Bit rubbish, that one, Master.

Look, Bottom, improvisation needs

a non-critical environment to flourish.

You can't do it if you're getting heckled by your servant.

You need to man up. Comedy's a tough game. It's adversarial.

I just don't think it needs to be.

Come on, Will.

You totally know why I need this poet thing.

It's my cover.

Oh, yes, of course. I was forgetting.

You're a secret agent.

I'm one of Walsingham's men.

Sworn to defend the realm, yet forever in the shadows

and so I play the gadsome poet

whilst on my secret work of vital national importance.

- Hmm. - This work being the entrapping and burning of Catholics?

- Absolutely. - And that's vitally important, is it?

Well, it seems to be. Walsingham never shuts up about it.

As a taxpayer, I can't help wondering

if the state might not be better employed

expending its resources on other important works.

Building better roads, for instance,

or some rudimentary urban plumbing.

Well, you'd think, wouldn't you?

But burning Catholics, that's definitely the big thing.

Just as burning Protestants was the big thing

of the last insane bint in a crown who passed England's way.

Yes, weird, isn't it? But I don't make the rules.

I'm just in it for the expense account

and the chance to chase foreign girls.

Well, I'm sorry, Kit,

but you're going to have to have exotic sex at the public's expense

without my help. I love you, cuz,

but I'm not giving you my frog-jock play,

and that's final.

Well, if you won't, you won't, I suppose.

Writing plays can't be that hard.

Maybe I'll just grab a chicken and write one myself.

If you write a play, I... I fear it will be like that

which stinks but be not fish,

fertilises plants but be not compost,

and is the last stage of the digestive process

but be not a glass of port and a pipe of tobacco.

Pardon?

He means "crap".

You get used to him over time.

Well, we'll see. No hard feelings. Right, I'm for the tavern.

I love you loads.

I hated saying no.

He's such a great bloke.

- He uses you. - He's a mate.

- You're his bitch. - I am not his bitch!

You are, but you can't see it cos you're too nice.

What's more, he gave up too easy.

He's up to something. I don't trust him.

Nonsense, Bottom.

Kit's my mate.

He would never plot against me.

It's time you stood up for yourself, Kate.

Mr Marlowe, Mr Shakespeare is my friend.

I can't betray him.

Would you rather betray your own sex?

If Will's play were mine, I'd defy the law

and let you play the frog-jock queen.

- You'd really make me an actor? - Absolutely.

Imagine it -- the curtain calls, the lovely little suppers,

the licence to bang on endlessly about poverty and inequality

whilst trousering a golden purse!

And even more important than that,

the chance to be a strong woman and prove that women are strong.

Absolutely.

Particularly women actors,

who I imagine will be very, very strong indeed

and believe strongly in the fact that women are strong.

- For sure. Totally. - I'll do it.

Good girl.

But where will I put the coconuts?

One problem at a time.

Well, Bottom, today's the day.

Eh?

The poet Robert Greene, who is Master of the Queen's Revels,

is coming to collect my brilliant play

Frog-Jock Mary, Queen Of Gingery Savages In Skirts.

Ah, Master Shaky-Talent.

I'm sorry. Did I say Shaky-Talent(?)

I meant, of course, Shakespeare,

although oft the tongue will tattle what the heart would hide.

Oft indeed, you preening, supercilious plague pustule.

Oops! You see?

I'm doing it now.

But enough of such merriment, sirrah.

The third Sunday after Lammington Eve approaches.

You sent word that you have written a play.

Not even a collaboration, but all by yourself.

You sound surprised, Master Greene.

Well, 'tis only that all London's poets are university men --

Kyd, Nashe, Beaumont, Marlowe,

mine own humble self,

while you, sir, are a country bum-snot and oik of Avon,

a town-school spotty-grotty.

And so am I like the fulsome cleavage of a buxom, saucing wench.

Meaning?

Much looked down upon.

I like that one, Master.

That works.

Woe to Albion!

This sceptred isle doth burst with talent

and yet a gaggle of snootish pamperloins

from just two universities snaffle all the influence, jobs and cash.

It is as it should be and as it ever will be, sirrah.

Ever will be, Greene? Huh! I hardly think that, centuries hence,

a tiny clique of Oxbridge posh boys will still be running everything.

Come now, the appointed day approaches.

I would fain have sight of your play

to ensure the Queen's person be not offended.

Offended? My play's a eulogy.

Liz will love it.

If she sees it.

Christopher Marlowe, a university man of proven genius,

has also promised a play.

Kit? He wrote a play after all?

Damn! That was quick.

Come now, I'm a busy man.

Give me your play!

Absolutely. Here it is.

Um... I have it,

but...

.. I-I thought I might drop it off later.

Later, sirrah?

Why later, pray?

Just want to give it a final polish, you know?

Dotting Is, crossing Ts.

At Cambridge, we tend to dot our Is and cross our Ts as we go along.

I still have a few days.

But a few, sir. The Queen has taken to her bed with a chill.

She wants this play to cheer her up.

- And she shall have it. - Good day!

It's gone!

My play, it's gone!

Oh, no!

Oh, no! Woe!

We must search every inch of this room.

Bye.

It must be here somewhere!

Well, if it is, we can't find it.

True. It is beyond our skill.

But there is a mystical species that can find anything.

Wood nymphs!

- Don't be ridiculous. - Sorry.

Wood nymphs are treacherous creatures

and would find my play only to put it on the fire

to warm the toes of their sweethearts, the elves.

But there is another enchanted species that will serve.

Who's that, then?

Why, to find it, we have only to take a man

and add woe.

Know you of what creature I speak?

Uh... Someone sad?

Are sad people good at finding things?

Why, a man's woe is his wife,

and add "woe" to "man" and you have...?

Woe-man.

- Woe-man? - Woman!

- Woman... - My wife, Bottom! Mistress Anne!

She can find anything.

Honestly, Master, it'd be so much easier if you just said "Anne".

It's what I do!

Now, hie thee to the coaching house and send word for Stratford.

Well, I've found six old quills, three sets of eyeglasses

and two penn'orth three farthing down a crack.

Bit of a relief, that. I thought it were piles.

But no Papist-baiting play.

This is terrible.

Greene will take Marlowe's play to the Queen in my stead.

Marlowe? You mean that bloke you've let take credit for your plays

cos he's a posh boy and makes you feel inadequate?

He does not make me feel inadequate.

I just happen to think he's a really great guy.

When did you last see the play?

On the day I returned from Stratford.

Marlowe had come over to quaff wine and have a ladsy chat.

Kate was here.

She will bear witness.

Kate, the landlady's daughter,

who's always banging on about being a star?

By St Cuthbert's codpiece, Husband,

do you not know anything about human nature?

Actually, I have a unique and timeless insight into...

into the very heart of what it is to be human.

It's... It's absolutely what I do!

Well, you must see that Marlowe's got your play,

pinched by false Kate.

It's bleedin' obvious.

Kate and Marlowe?

Y-Y-You're saying they've stitched me up like a pair of winter drawers?

I'd expect it of him, but I'm very disappointed in her.

Oh, you're too nice, Will.

We all know that.

But now it's time to use your unique and timeless insight

into conjuring some trick to get the play back.

I will, Wife. I will!

- In fact, I have! - Already?

Yes. And it's a corker.

Bottom, take this to Burbage at the Red Lion and await me there.

If Kate be false, this will sound her out.

The play's the crucial factor

to catch the conscience of our girlie actor.

Well, this is most peculiar.

All ready? We need to begin

rehearsal on Marlowe's brilliant Mary, The Frog-Jock.

Such a wonderful part for me.

The traitor queen -- half-French, half-Scottish.

A dialect challenge indeed.

Bonjour, Jimmy...

.. comment-allez vous...

- .. ya dirty wee bastard? - Yes...

But now Will Shakespeare does insist upon our old friendship

that we must posthaste rehearse this fragment of his.

You, Mr Condell, will play Katie, a beautiful young lady.

Typecasting, darling?!

And I am Sir Christopher Stoop-lowe,

a spy and a charlatan.

A comic role, I think.

- Comedy? - Yeah?

That's right.

You do a bit of comedy, don't you, Burbage?

English comedy. Boring comedy.

In Italy, where I'm big, we do proper comedy. Yeah.

You play one Shakepike. A genius.

Ah, so no acting required, then?

Good morrow, sirrahs.

I see you have my new pages.

Well, you sent word you had verse to show us.

Indeed I do, Kit. Come, friends, be seated and let the play begin.

Places, everybody! Places!

Now, remember, speak the speech as I have writ it

and don't wave your arms about and try to be funny.

I beg your pardon?

And don't shout. Frankly, if you're going to shout,

I might as well get Mr Shouty the town-shouter to shout my verse.

Cheeky sod!

And please don't do that actor thing of adding one not-very-funny grunt

and then going around saying you

made up the whole thing in rehearsal.

The Lamentable Tragedy Of The False Maid And The Stolen Muse!

I'm Bill Shakepike,

and writ have I my finest work, so...

What-ho!

who doth reside with Shakepike.

Stay cool, pretty lady, stay cool.

Has thou writ a brilliant new play, Bill?

Ooh, have I? Yeah, just a bit.

Stick to the bloody script, Kempe!

Just helping you out, mate.

'Tis I, Sir Christopher Stoop-lowe!

A spy and a false friend!

And I will have Shakepike's play for my own!

Steal the play, Katie!

Steal the play!

I can't bear it!

I'm sorry, Mr Shakespeare,

A girl to play a girl?

You are a clever little bastible, I'll give you that.

Here's your play back, and no hard feelings, eh?

Oh, so does this mean we can still be mates, then?

Bloody hell, Master! Why don't you just send him flowers?!

- Of course we can still be mates. You too, Kate. - Ooh!

Although you are going to have to toughen up

if you want to cut it in a man's world.

Can't get teary and collapse over a bit of overacting.

I beg your pardon?!

- Such an outrage. - Actually, I was brilliant. Fact.

I've got it.

I've got my play for the Queen's feast.

I only pray I'm not too late.

Play? Play?!

You talk of plays?!

The Queen's chill has grown worse and she is like to die.

The kingdom is in crisis.

and I must hasten to insert my nose

betwixt the next set of royal buttocks

before other oily courtiers fill the gap.

Be gone, sirrah, with your play!

But, Master Greene...

.. if you hope to be master of the new monarch's revels,

surely you'll need a play

for the celebration feast?

Actually, that's true.

No other courtier will have a play so soon.

Guards, see that Mr Shakespeare doesn't leave!

That were quick thinking, Master.

Your play will be the first of a new reign.

Pretty posh way to kick off your solo career.

Yes, it really is a brilliant opportunity.

Wonder who the next king'll be.

Unless it's another bird.

Oh, bloody hell, I hope not. It's just wrong.

No chance of that. The succession has been settled

since the Queen passed child-bearing age.

There survives a great-great-grandson of Henry VII.

James VI of Scotland.

In fact, he'll be James I of England.

Oh. James of Scotland.

- Master... - Yes, Bottom?

I'm just thinking... I may be wrong, cos I'm a groundling

and it's all crap for us, whoever's on t'throne, but isn't he a Stuart?

Yeah, that's right. Son of Mary Stuart.

Mary Stuart, who your play slags off as a frog-jock queen

and traitorous Catholic whore-slap.

Oh, God. I'm on the wrong branch of the family tree.

A new head on the coins.

And a new head in the waste-heads basket.

I've got to run.

We must burn the play!

No fire -- it's summer.

Then dissolve it in quicklime.

Yeah, cos obviously I've got a wheelbarrow

full of that in me bag(!)

I don't suppose you've got any salt and pepper, either.

Glorious news! The Queen is recovered!

The doctors think her like to live another 20 years!

And, Master Shakespeare,

you have more luck than you deserve,

for the first thing the Queen has asked for is a play.

I... I had it

but it's been stolen...

by wood nymphs.

Mr Shakespeare, Her Majesty is promised a play,

and you must provide one... now.

The Lamentable Tragedy Of The False Maid And The Stolen Muse.

Hmm.

Interesting title.

Where's the play?

Um...

That's it.

It's on the back.

The Queen said my play lacked plot, wit, grace and poetry.

- There was one thing she liked. - That's promising. What?

That it was only 97 seconds long.

I fear I've missed my chance.

And eaten a masterpiece.

I still can't believe that little minx, Kate, stole your play.

I've forgiven her.

Kate is a sweet girl, really,

and Marlowe is so persuasive with the ladies.

And the blokes.

I hope this little incident has cooled your bromance.

I like Kit, Anne.

He's cool, he's confident.

He's everything I'm not.

You don't want to be like that.

You're a fartsome baldy-boots, doll. Own it!

Kit Marlowe'll probably die in some bleedin' tavern fight somewhere,

whereas you will die in your own bed

with me, your loving wife.

Ah, you're right, Anne.

I'd certainly rather be dull than dead.

Besides, you showed him, eh?

Oh, that was such a clever idea,

putting on a play to prick a guilty conscience!

Yes, it did work rather well!

Oh... You should put that in a play.

A play within a play?

That's not going to work!

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