Shakespeare in Love

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.
- [ Laughing ]

- 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?
I, 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?
[ Priest ]
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.