All language subtitles for Upstart Crow s02e07 A Christmas Crow.eng

Such excitement. Christmas is
upon us, a smile on every face

and a gladsome glow in every heart.

Don't get me started!

- Do not get me started because
I will not stop. - Father's home!

- Do not get me started.
- Home for Christmas!

Anne, I said don't get me started
and now you've gone and started me!

- You said you was home for Christmas.
- Yes, Christmas. That special time

when the coach companies of England
make their annual contribution

to the festive spirit by
running their deceptively titled

"holiday service".

I mean why? Just why?!

"The entire country's on the
move so here's an idea --

"let's re-route or cancel
every single coach in England!"

By St Thomas's toasted teacakes
'tis lucky the three Wise Men

didn't travel to the
manger by public coach.

Jesus would have been crucified

and risen again by the
time they got there!

"Bethlehem? We usually follow a star

"but it's been taken out of service
due to essential engineering works."

Well, you're home now.

Home for Christmas. And all must be merry.

Once the advent fast be
passed on Christmas Eve,

we shall feast most royalty.

I hate the advent fast. I'm like, why?!

You're lucky, girl.

In my day under Queen
Mary the advent fast lasted

until Christmas morning. Which
in my view is the proper way.

Starting Christmas as early as
Christmas Eve is just wrong.

It's all wrong. The true meaning
of Christmas is forgotten.

A surprisingly spiritual observation, Dad.

It's all about Baby
flippin' Jesus these days.

What's he gotta do with it?

What's Baby Jesus got to do
with Christmas? Hmm, tough one.

Well, the first syllable is his
surname -- could be a clue there --

and the second does mean to worship.
Anything in that? Hard to tell.

It shouldn't be called Christ-mass
at all, it's supposed to be

a pagan festival celebrating
the winter solstice,

a nonstop pissling uppity

dedicated to spending too much
money on presents and parties.

The whole gluttonous
debauch has been completely

corrupted by religion.

At least the habit of giving
presents hasn't changed.

- I hope you've bought me a lovely
present, Will. - Not yet, Anne,

but I know what it is, I'm thinking
of something really personal

- and special. - Ooh, hark at him,
Mum. Dad's gone all soppy doodah.

I haven't gone all soppy doodah,
daughter, I am all soppy doodah.

And if you can't be soppy doodah
at Christmas, when can you be?

Oh, such a joyful season!

Grandad be already voted
our Lord of Misrule.

Well, there's a surprise.

I shall quaff and gorge, play
tricks and mark mischief.

And in what respect will this
differ from the rest of the year?

The Lord of Misrule is a
disgusting, common tradition.

- You love it when I get a bit cheeky!
- I do not love it.

- And we shall have the wassailers
in on Christmas Eve. - No, wife,

I'm afraid there I draw the
line. I know you love wassailing

but if any pisslinged village
idiot turns up at our door

with a silly hat and a
comedy codpiece claiming to be

the wicked Turk or bold St
George and demanding ale,

I shall point the back
end of Mrs Moo-Moo at him.

Here I come, bold St George,
to kill the wicked Turk.

- Ha-ha-ha! - I definitely have THE
most embarrassing grandad in Stratford.

Oh, it's Christmas, let
him have a bit of fun.

I can't believe you're
home this early, Will.

We're all set for a cosy,
family holiday -- just us,

like you promised me.

Absolutely, and we will definitely
have a cosy Christmas with

just us like I promised,

but it isn't going to start quite
yet cos I must return to London.

Back to London before Christmas?
Why would you do that?

Probably got a fancy woman in town.

That's what blokes usually
do at this time of year --

sneak off to buy a secret
present for the mistress.

Why are you rushing back, Will?

Well, astonishingly, Dad is sort of right.

It is a woman and she's about
as fancy as you can get.

I've had such success this year
that the Queen has commissioned me

to produce a play for her
Christmas feasting. And I have

just the thing -- I'm going to
use that new cross-dressing comedy

I was telling you all about.

Another cross-dressing comedy?!

I think you've gotta ask yourself, why?!

Doesn't sound very
Christmassy to me, Will.

No, it's got nothing to
do with Christmas at all,

but mark my cleverness I'm going
to give it a Christmassy title.

There be of course 12 days of Christmas

and so I have called it Eighth Night.

Which is the night on which
it is to be performed.

I did suggest Tenth Night
to the royal chamberlain

but it seems Her Maj is having
mates round for charades.

Never mind all that excitement,

if you've got a play to rehearse,

why did you bother coming home at all?

- To collect monies for the big present.
- The big present?

Oh, yes, I must buy a very beautiful
and big, expensive present.

I would have thought that was obvious.

Well, when you put it like that...

So I will return to London on
the morrow, sort out my play,

purchase the very big present and
then return on Christmas Eve.

For a lovely family Christmas.
We shall gorge till we're queasy.

We'll quaff till we be squiffy.

And then we'll all have a massive fight.

Exactly. A traditional family Christmas.

I love Christmas, especially
the lead-up. So exciting.

Fasting throughout advent,
denying oneself all

but the most basic sustenance,

then on Christmas Eve fasting again,

then waking up on Christmas morn all
a-tingle, ready for the big morning

fast, which gets you in just the
right mood for distributing arms

and washing the feet of the poor.

It's all so exciting and Christmassy!

When I were a kid, we had
a priest, lovely fella,

couldn't pronounce his "S" at
all, so for years the entire parish

thought we were meant
to fart through advent.

"Advent," he'd say,
"Time to tart farting."

And we'd all give a big cheer and let rip.

That is a lovely Christmas story, Bottom.

Ho-ho-ho-ho!

All is madness! The fox chases the
hound, the master serves the man.

- It's so funny!
- Brilliant!

But you're very naughty, Mr
Marlowe, it's still advent.

- Merry be not yet begun.
- Oh, come on now, Kate.

No-one waits any more,

the currants and the clothes have
been in the shop since August.

Ah, Kit, thought that was
you ahead of me. Splendid.

I see you've already got
your amusing bells on.

Yeah, couldn't wait.

Don't blame you. So amusing!

But I really can't get too much
into the fun stuff just yet.

I'm off to the Red Lion.

Burbage is rehearsing my
Eighth Night for the Queen.

- And you need to buy that big,
special present. - Absolutely.

- For your wife, Anne?
- Anne? God, no. The Queen.

Yeah, all that come to court
at Christmas must bring

- the monarch a gift.
- And it better be a good one.

Christmas gifts for the monarch
are deeply significant.

In 1581, Sir Philip Sidney,
who had been thought a rebel,

bought Liz a golden whip which
symbolised his recognition

- of her divine authority.
- Yeah, well, that was the official version.

Although the fluffy wrist
irons and the card saying

"I've been a very naughty boy,"
may suggest a different story.

I hope you've also given some
thought to what you would

give Mrs Shakespeare, Mr Shakespeare.

Of course, Kate. I've planned
something really special.

Writ have I various verses of
love and dedicated all to her.

I shall place them in a small
casket, a jewel box, in fact,

for was ever there a jewel
more sparkling than love?

Sounds kind of lame, Will.

I think it's lovely. You'll
have a wonderful Christmas.

We certainly will. I've promised
Anne that it'll be just the family.

Me, Anne, my mum and dad and the kids.

- Plus Bottom, of course, to do the dishes.
- Yes, absolutely.

- And me. - You, Kit? - Yeah. Yeah,
I need a favour. It ain't no thing.

As you know, I am officially a spy
and Walsingham wants me to spend

Crimble uncovering Catholic masses

and quite frankly I don't fancy the gig.

So the plan is to hide out in
Stratters, gorge in your tuck,

quaff in your ale, stroll back
into London on the seventh night

with a bit of pig's blood on the sword

and tell Wally I've just killed
a shed-load of wafer-nibblers.

Oh, I-I-I see.

The thing is, I promised Anne.

- I'd like to help, I honestly would...
- It's settled then.

Oh! You're a pal.

- Oh. Right. - I must say, it does sound
like fun -- a big, family Christmas.

All sat around the turkey stuffed
with a goose stuffed with a chicken

stuffed with a partridge stuffed
with a pigeon. So exciting.

You'll have a wonderful time.

Child, there be a strange longing
and a melancholy in your tone.

Surely you will also have a
family Christmas with your mother?

No, Mr Shakespeare, she
won't be home at Christmas

because she's a trollopsome tarting
scrub who be going for a slap

and ticklish winter break with
her bit of saucy ruffington.

Goodness. But if your mother
be a-slapping and a-ticklishing

with her saucy ruffington, then
you will be alone at Christmas.

Yes. That's right.

- All alone.
- Yes. Just me.

Apart from when I pop
out to distribute arms

and wash the feet of the poor, of course.

You mean you've been decking
these halls just for yourself?

Oh, yes, absolutely. Got to do it properly

and no excuse for not keeping
Christmas full merrily.

Even if it be but for oneself.

I'm planning a small starling crown
stuffed with a sparrow's thigh.

And I've already made a
list of all the carols

I intend to sing to myself.
It's going to be brilliant.

Kate... would you like to
come home to Stratford with us?

Oh, Mr Shakespeare,
that would be wonderful!

But won't Mrs Shakespeare be upset,

her heart being set on a family Crimble?

Hmmm, there's a thought.

Tell you what, my nan
does love the wassailers.

Thus to be sure of a happy welcome
we must all come a-wassailing.

After all, it's only TWO extra places.

It's Robert Greene. Wonder what he wants.

Hm, yes, if only I had a servant
who could go and answer the door,

then we could find out.

Merry Christmas to you, too.

Although I think it's pretty clear,
don't you? He means me some harm.

The Queen's commission to write
a Christmas play for the court

will have eaten into his soul like a
weevil through a Christmas stilton.

Ah, the compliments of the season
to you, Mr Shakespeare, Mr Marlowe,

Miss Kate, and you also, good
yeoman, Ned Bottom, is it not?

Here, take this penny for
the birth of our saviour.

A penny? You're giving me a week's wages?

Not enough? Take two, good Ned, for
if I may paraphrase the old song,

'tis the season to give lolly.

This is a bit weird.

Greene come a-giving
arms and a-cracking gags.

It's gotta be a trick. Careful, mate.

And thee, Miss Kate, I
have a gift for thee also.

The whisper is you have a
poet's soul and yet being a maid

have no outlet for your talent
in this cruel man's world.

I thought perhaps these fine brushes

and paints might bring
succour to your soul.

Oh, Mr Greene! I have always
dreamed of just such a gift!

Do you think it would be very
naughty of me if I began at once?

Of course not. And pray,
child, what will you paint?

Why, Mr Greene, I am a girl.

What else would I use my
Christmas present for,

other than to create a
selfington portraiture?

Come now, Greene, what be
the meaning of your mood?

How is it that you who, in the past,

have been full of sound and
fury like the roaring lion,

now blow soft and gentle
like the flatulent fawn?

You stand in wonder at my new benevolence.

I cannot blame you, sirrah.

The sad truth is that I have been
in desperate need of an epiphany.

Just have one out the window,
Mr Greene. We all do.

Except for Kate.

Oh, actually, I do if it's dark.

Every night's a full moon for us girls.

No, an epiphany, good Ned.

As when the Christ child was
revealed unto the Magi in a stable.

In a stable, out the window, it
all ends up in the same river.

An epiphany is not a man with
a lisp having a "piff", Bottom.

It means seeing the light.

Have you seen the light, Mr Greene?

Aye, Mr Shakespeare, I
have seen the light...

in others.

Darkness in myself.

Goodness, Mr Greene!

Did Christ appear to you in a vision?

No, lady, I was not so blessed.

My vision was the realisation that I
will spend this Christmas all alone.

For none will make merry with me.

Why is that, do you think?

Well...

Come now, do not dissemble,
you know the answer.

Well, you can be a tad abrasive.

Not always entirely generous
or sunny in your outlook.

A complete and utter bastible.

Exactly. I am despised
because I am despicable.

That was my epiphany.

I sat alone, watching my servant
stuff a turkey with a goose,

with a chicken, with a
partridge, with a pigeon,

and knew that none but I
would share the feast.

And then did I know myself
for the first time...

be a friendless, lonely, cruel old man.

Oh. Really...

you're not that bad.

Actually, he is.

Definitely.

And since mine own Christmas
must be lonely and miserable,

I can at least help make others merry,

and so do I go about the town with gifts,

before returning to my lonely...

.. solitary Christmas.

Look, Greene, if...

if you can show a bit of
Christmas spirit, then so can I.

Would you like to come and
spend Christmas with us?

Glory be!

I am to have a jolly
family Christmas after all.

Forgive me while I fall to
my knees and give thanks.

Goodness, how amazing!

Greene's really had an epiphany!

I think he's taking the epiphany.

He's a slipperish
bug-a-ball and no denying,

but he seems sincere enough.

I mean, frankly, who would want to trick
their way into your boring family Christmas?

Oh, I don't know, we
Shakespeares know how to party.

There will be warm ale and pie and
all will play Snuffle the Truffle.

- Ooh! Now, I like the sound of that.
- Oh, it's marvellous fun.

We take a piece of bread
to represent the truffle,

put it on the floor, and then
all will play pigs, trying to

- snuffle at the bread whilst oinking
most mightily. - Is there any more?

Absolutely, we love games.

After Snuffle the Truffle, we
generally play Snaffle the Apple.

- Oh! - Where we take a piece of bread
to represent the apple... - Yeah.

.. place it on the floor, and
then all will play donkeys,

trying to snaffle the apple
whilst braying most mightily.

Then there's Make Merry
with the Berry, where we

take a piece of bread to represent
to represent the berry...

Yes, I think we get it. The point
is, do we trust Greene? Kate?

Kate, what do you think?

Oh, I think it's wonderful that
Mr Greene has had an epi...

an epi...

Kate, what... What ails thee?

Thy breasts be pushed forward

and thy face be frozen
in a pouty, kissy manner.

It just feels instinctively
like the right pose

for a girlie selfington portraiture.

I don't know why, it just does.

This Eighth Night is his silliest yet.

The plot is simply potty!

If this is Eighth Night,

I'd hate to think what
the first seven were like!

Good morrow, all.

I see you have my play.
What do you think? Loving it?

Well, if I'm honest, Will,
we're a bit disappointed.

Disappointed?

When you told us you were writing a
play for the Royal Christmas Revels,

we thought it would be all
lovely and warm and Christmassy.

Yet you deliver a farrago
of nonsense about a brother

and sister washed up on a foreign shore,

each thinking each other dead.

That's not Christmassy. That's,
like, mad un-Christmassy.

Well, I think it's a
terrible missed opportunity.

This be naught but a
laughable ragbag of songs,

silly misunderstandings,
a girl dressed as a boy

and a lot of characters with silly names!

Who would ever want a show
like that at Christmas?

But Mr Condell, you are to play
my divine Viola in the comedy.

So, it is a comedy?

Of course it's a comedy!

You can tell, because there are
characters with funny names.

That's how I let people know.

And this one's got some corkers.

Sir Toby Belch!

I mean, come on! So funny.

- Yes. But funny names aside, the
plot is very complex. - Complex?

- How is it complex?
- Well, at the start, Viola loves Orsino.

Yes, Viola loves Orsino, it's
hardly Chinese firework science.

But Orsino loves Olivia.

And Olivia loves Viola.

Viola is of course a woman, but
Olivia thinks Viola is a man,

because hilariously, Viola
is wearing men's clothes!

So funny.

But then Viola's brother,
Sebastian, turns up,

dressed in exactly the
same clothes as his sister.

They have to be dressed the
same for the comedy to work.

So, it definitely is a comedy?

Yes, it's a comedy!

It's a very convoluted comedy.

How can you say that?

Olivia sees Sebastian, thinks he's
Viola and marries him on the spot.

Orsino, who of course loves Olivia,

is furious to discover
she's married Sebastian.

Viola returns,

meaning that Olivia now appears
to have two identical husbands.

Viola takes off her cap
and shakes out her hair.

Orsino forgets Olivia and marries Viola.

Olivia is of course already
married to Sebastian,

even though she thought
she was married to Viola,

and the two couples
live happily ever after.

How is that convoluted?

Now, rehearse the play as it is writ,

and I'll see you on Eighth Night.

Positions!

Give us a hand with this
Yule log, will you, Mary?

You know how you like
handling my wood! Ha-ha!

You're a common man, John
Shakespeare, a very common man.

And you love it!

I am the Lord of Misrule

and I can order you to do
any naughty thing I like!

You cannot order me to do
anything, John Shakespeare.

But you could try asking nicely.

Shut up! Gross! I want to be sick!

Old people do still do
it, you know, Susanna.

Urgh! I'm not listening! Urgh!

Come on, Susanna, help
me peel these parsnips.

I've still to stuff the turkey
with the goose, with the chicken,

with the partridge, with the
pigeon, and we expect your father

at any moment, home for a nice,
quiet family Christmas with just us.

Yep, and with that great big special
present he was talking about!

? Here we come a-wassailing
among the leaves so green

? Here we come a-wandering
so fairly to be seen

? Love and joy come to you,
and to you your wassail too

? And God bless you and
send you a Happy New Year

? And God send you a Happy New Year. ?

Brilliant! Well done, son.

I never knew you had it in you!

But I thought you hated the wassailers

who come a-begging ale and pie?

We're not begging, Mum, I live here!

It's my ale and my pie, and
I say let's get stuck in!

Good wife, I know I
promised a quiet Christmas,

but Kate and Marlowe and Master
Greene had nowhere left to go.

Well, it is the season of goodwill,
and you did come a-wassailing,

and you have got me a lovely big present.

Oh, yes, Anne, a lovely
one which is as big

and bursting with love as my heart.

Oh, well, in that case,
Merry Christmas, one and all!

- Hello, Sue. - Oh, you're not
going to be weird, are you?

Oh, no, absolutely not.

I know that in the past, my
neediness has been alienating,

but since then, I've grown as a person,

learned to love myself and say,
hey, it's all right to be me.

And what part of not being
weird is that not being?

Can we be friends?

I dunno! Not sure.

It's just, I got some paints
and brushes for Christmas,

and I thought I might do a cheeky
portraiture of thine visage.

Well, in that case -- brilliant!

Christmas girlie fun!

I'm so happy, I could cry!

So, just hold that pose for two hours.

I am the Lord of Misrule,

and I order all to eat,
drink and be merry!

No need for orders, my
lord, happy to oblige!

Right, when I drop the truffle,

everybody snuffle!

Step will I a yard or two aside and
speak my most private thoughts,

which by strict convention,
none will hear.

Look at them!

With their imbecilic laughter, their
pathetic good fellowship and fun.

Little do they know that
even as they barf and bray,

caught are they in my
web of lies and plots.

For I am come hither this
Christmas to destroy the crow!

He has bought a jewel as
a present for the Queen.

And I intend to steal it.

Without a gift for the monarch, his
play will instantly be cancelled.

And likely, too, will his life be forfeit.

But soft. As ever, fortune
favours the Cambridge man.

Why, the shrewish milking
slap hath done my work for me,

uncovered hath she the very
thing that I would filch.

Later, when all be in bed,

will I steal that jewel and
be gone from this foul hovel.

And tomorrow, will I
be alone in my mansion,

feasting on turkey stuffed with
goose, stuffed with chicken,

stuffed with partridge,
stuffed with pigeon,

which I will have all to myself.

Mmm!

You're right, Will.

This is a blooming good game!

You wait til we play Snaffle the Apple!

Ah! Greene. Need another
drink, eh? Me too.

Let's have a nasty lasty together, eh?

Two varsity roisters quaffing as one!

Ah! Gladly, sirrah.

Once more will I step a yard or two
aside and speak my most private

thoughts which, by strict
convention, cannot be overheard.

This Marlowe is second only
to Shakespeare in my loathing.

I will share with him this nasty lasty and

perchance discover means to do him harm.

Well, it's all very pleasant isn't it, eh?

- Quaffing and a-gorging
in the country. - Hmm, yes.

'Tis tremendous FUN.

And yet, Mr Marlowe, I cannot help
but ask myself, would not a famous

roister such as yourself prefer a
rather wilder Christmas in London?

You know I would!

I mean, left to myself, I'd be
nibbling mince pies betwixt the arse

and cleavage of a gladsome,
Yuletide saucing slap.

But let me tell you,

hiding out here is a damn sight
more pleasant than hunting Catholics!

Oh, joy. I see his head
already on the block.

But, Mr Marlowe, be you
skiving off, sirrah?

Had Walsingham a Christmas
mission for you?

Oops! Shouldn't have said that!
But er... Yeah. I'm on a skive.

I mean, if Walsingham ever
found out, I'd be for it,

but he's not going to, as I am too smart.

I may look thick, but I got a
pretty canny head on my shoulders.

Mmm. It won't be on
your shoulders for long.

- It's Christmas!
- Yeah, time for presents!

Ooh.

Well, perchance there be some
sweet meats or maybe a toy or two,

but we should have them in front
of the Yule log with Nan and Gramps.

Oh, come on, Mum. Let's
have them now, just us.

- Well, maybe just one.
- Here's one for you, Mum.

Oh, no, no, no. I want to choose my own,

and I know EXACTLY the one I want.

If your dad's put it in
here! And I see he has.

Yes, I have, my dearest Anne.

'Tis something from my very heart.

A bit of paper?!

Poems, my love. I have
writ some verse for thee.

Are you all right, my sweet?

Yeah. Lovely.

Um, if you'd like to take the
kids downstairs, Will, get them

ready for the feasting, and...

I just need a moment.

All right, come on, kids!
Let's go and light a fire.

Bring the presents.

Where is Robert Greene?
I have something for him.

He was drinking pretty late with Marlowe.

I imagine they're still in bed.

We must drink him a toast! More ale!

If you were in my position...

.. what would you do?

What position is that?

Well, imagine that your husband
had bought a gold necklace and,

come Christmas, he gave
it to somebody else.

Hmm, yes, that's right. The Queen.

I mean, would you...

.. would you wait to find out
if it was just a necklace...

.. if it was sex and a necklace, or...

.. worst of all, if it was...

.. a necklace and love?

It's none of those things.
It's a necklace for the Queen.

Would you stay?

Knowing that things would
always be a little bit worse?

Or would you cut and run?

The Queen?

As you know, every person who
comes to court at Christmas must

give a gift on pain of death.

Thus have I spent nearly half a year's

income on a necklace for she
who already has enough necklaces

to satisfy a particularly
vain and shallow giraffe.

- You bought a necklace for the Queen?
- Absolutely.

But do you know, wife, I care not
a single jot for the money it cost,

for when I look at you I know
have all the riches in the world.

I've tried to express something
along those lines in the poems

I gave you in the little casket.

Aww!

Sorry, Mrs Shakespeare, probably
shouldn't be reading this,

but it was just on the table, and...

They are SO beautiful.

Soppy, but beautiful.

No, no, Kate, that's fine.

Perhaps you wouldn't mind
reading them to me, you know,

seeing as how I can't.

They're just fragments, work in progress.

"How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.

"I love thee to the depth and breadth

"and height my soul can reach.

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea.

"My love is deep.

"The more I give to thee, the more
I have, for both are infinite."

Oh! Fine verse indeed, Will.

He gets it from my side, of course.

"Whoever loved that loved
not at first sight?"

Dad! That's, like, TOTALLY beautiful.

And another of my phrases destined,
in my view, to enter common usage.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire.

"Doubt that the sun doth move.

"Doubt truth to be a liar.

"But never doubt, I love."

What a load of crappage.

"Move" does not rhyme with "love".

Mrs S, I think you just got
the best Christmas present

since the shepherds pledged only
their hearts to the infant Jesus.

Yes.

And I shall carry it with me
forever. I will never let it go.

Aw, Will!

I don't deserve you.

No, Anne -- I don't deserve you.

But use any man after his dessert
and who should escape whipping?

Everyone deserves to be loved!

I beg to differ, Mr Shakespeare.

Some deserve only to HANG.

Oh, merry Christmas, all
right, when's the first drink?

- Now a good time?
- Guards, arrest him!

What the devil's toenails?!

Your drunken witterings
hath condemned you, sirrah.

When Walsingham discovers
your desertion of duty,

your head will be forfeit.

But... Greene, I thought
you'd gone all nice!

Hmm. For a self-proclaimed genius,
you know little of human nature!

- I think history's going to prove you
wrong on that one. - Remove the prisoner!

Now, don't worry, Kit --

I am to attend the Queen this
eighth night, and will surely win

her favour with my enchanting
comedy of various nobles

falling in love with the wrong people.

I imagine once she's
finished laughing at the name

Sir Toby Belch, she'll be happy
to grant me any favour I ask.

Oh, Bolingbrokes. I'm doomed.

I just don't see how we can make
it work. We don't look a bit alike.

It's lame.

So lame. I mean, proper
lame, like, mad lame.

I know, but Eighth Night approaches,

and we have no choice but to rehearse.

Oh, but you do, sirrah! Indeed, you must,

for I have it on good authority that

Mr Shakespeare has bought
no gift for Her Majesty.

No gift? He intends to go before
the Queen at Christmas with no gift?

We may forget the play. He
will be lucky to keep his head!

And likewise us, Mr Burbage,

for we will certainly
be cast aside with him

- if we give his Eighth Night.
- But we are booked to perform!

We must have a play!

Well now, sirrah, it just so
happens I have with me copies of...

- Bungay and Bacon, Mr Greene?
- Bacon and Bungay, Mr Burbage.

My very own Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay.

She's just so, you know, real.

Just like one of us.
She's the People's Queen.

I honestly think that if I
knew her, we'd be friends.

Yes, I'm wondering on
what evidence you're basing

this fantastical analysis of
the nature of class and power.

She works bloody hard!

- On being a tyrannical despot.
- Well, I wouldn't want the job.

What? The job of being
incredibly rich and all-powerful?

Every day, she has to keep scowling.
She can never let it drop.

We expect it of her.

Whatever she's doing, opening
pageants, cutting off heads,

murdering the Irish...

Always with a scowl, and
you never hear her complain.

Because if she ever did complain,

you'd be the first to hear
about it, wouldn't you?

"Does the Queen have a
complaint? I don't know.

"Let's ask Anne Shakespeare.

"She lives in a cottage in
Warwickshire, so she'd know."

Oh, you can sneer. But I
think she's wonderful.

Her Majesty the Queen.

We live in a wounded and divided country.

Ever must we make windows
into men's souls,

and oftentimes kill them
for what we find there.

I have known fear.

When a child, I was
dismissed and despised.

I was female.

I was Protestant.

And I was a ginge.

Now, I am Queen, and it is I who
must decide who is to be despised.

But it is Christmas, and
so I say good will to all,

particularly gingers.

Master of the Revels, how
are we to proceed this e'en?

Your Majesty, the poet
Shakespeare is to present his gift

prior to the performance of his play.

Step forward, poet, with your gift.

Also, if possible, a receipt of purchase.

Your Majesty, I... I can't. It's not...

Have a care, Mr Shakespeare.

If you do not bring a gift,

Christmas custom dictates
that you must give your head!

Be it ever a most difficult shape to wrap.

- Your Majesty, I... I
do have a gift. - Oh.

- Your Majesty... - Ahhh!
- (Sorry, Your Majesty.)

Thank you, Master Shakespeare.

It is a beautiful gift.

Whomsoever you do love
is a lucky woman indeed.

- Majesty, I... I love thee, as do
all thy subjects. - Yes, I know.

They have to. When they're
not trying to kill me.

The love contained within your
verse is of a different order.

It speaks not of duty, nor yet of fear.

It is the love felt by one
person for just one other,

given freely and unselfishly.

Such a love is not for me,
for I am married to England.

And though all the nation be my spouse...

.. I am ever the loneliest
person in the realm.

I thank you, sir...

.. for this little window into love.

And now, there is to be a
play presented, is there not?

Yes, absolutely, Your Majesty.

Mr Burbage and his men stand ready
to present my sublime new piece,

Eighth Night.

'Tis strange, Mr Greene,
'tis passing strange.

My gentle lady did tell
she o'erheard the players

rehearsing your appalling old
chestnut Backache and Bogey.

Bacon and Bungay, Your Majesty.

Lucky for you the rumour was false.

Had I thought for one minute
you'd try to slip your Bogey play

into my Yuletide schedule, I would
have had everyone involved beheaded!

Truth is, sirrah, I am in no
mood for comedy this e'en.

Mr Shakespeare, kindly present
your Eighth Night another season.

I will to my royal chamber,
there to be alone, and read again

these poems that speak so eloquently
of a love I'll never know.

See? I told you she was
burdened down by duty and worry.

It ain't no doddlin' skive being queen.

E'er I leave, poet, must I make
thee a gift, as is the custom.

What would you? Monies, titles, speak.

Your Majesty, not riches, nor a title.

There sits in the tower
the poet Kit Marlowe,

falsely accused of malingering,
when actually, he had a tummy ache.

I offer you all that men desire,
and you would help a friend?

Well, it... It is Christmas, after all.

Yes, Mr Shakespeare. It is Christmas.

Mr Marlowe shall be freed.

Now I bid good night to all.

I will hie me to my lonely chamber,

there to lie back

and think of England.

Give me my futtocking necklace
now, you thieving Barstible!

Merry Christmas, darling!

Oh, Will! It's stunning.

But I'd much rather have my poems.

Don't worry. There's plenty
more where those came from.

Well, husband. It's been
a wonderful Christmas.

Yes, it has.

And now, it be twelfth night.

Tomorrow is Plough Monday,
and work begins again.

Twelfth Night?

It's got a lovely ring to it, hasn't it?

A bit better than Eighth
Night, if you want my opinion.

There may be something in what you say.

Easy to change, since cleverly,

the title has literally
nothing to do with the play.

- Shame you never got to see
it performed. - It'll keep.

Might shelve it for a few years, anyway.

Not sure the world's ready for

a non-gender specific trans comedy yet.

It will be one day, doll.

You're just a bit ahead
of your time, that's all.

Happy Christmas.

Happy Christmas.

Peace on earth and goodwill to all men.

- And women.
- Of course!

And also, those who, like my
Viola, aren't exactly sure.

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