_A Cloaked Lady gropes her way from the palace and wanders along the
terrace, walking in her sleep._

THE LADY. _[rubbing her hands as if washing them]_ Out, damned spot.
You will mar all with these cosmetics. God made you one face; and you
make yourself another. Think of your grave, woman, not ever of being
beautified. All the perfumes of Arabia will not whiten this Tudor
hand.

THE MAN. "All the perfumes of Arabia"! "Beautified"! "Beautified"!
a poem in a single word. Can this be my Mary? _[To the Lady]_ Why
do you speak in a strange voice, and utter poetry for the first time?
Are you ailing? You walk like the dead. Mary! Mary!

THE LADY. _[echoing him]_ Mary! Mary! Who would have thought that
woman to have had so much blood in her! Is it my fault that my
counsellors put deeds of blood on me? Fie! If you were women you
would have more wit than to stain the floor so foully. Hold not up
her head so: the hair is false. I tell you yet again, Mary's buried:
she cannot come out of her grave. I fear her not: these cats that
dare jump into thrones though they be fit only for men's laps must be
put away. Whats done cannot be undone. Out, I say. Fie! a queen,
and freckled!

THE MAN. _[shaking her arm]_ Mary, I say: art asleep?

_The Lady wakes; starts; and nearly faints. He catches her on his
arm._