Rupert Everett Monologues

Now, until the break of day / Through this house each fairy stray. / To the best bride-bed will we, / Which by us shall blessed be; / So shall all the couples three / Ever true in loving be; / And the owner of it blest / Ever shall in safety rest. / Trip awa; make no stay; / Meet me all by break of day.

This is thy negligence. Still, still, still! Thou mistakest. Or else…

Committ'st thy knaveries willfully, hmm?

Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night, the starry welkin cover thou anon with drooping fog as black as Acheron and lead these testy rivals so astray that one not come within the other's way, then… crush this herb into Lysander's…

*Lysander's* eye. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I'll to my queen... and beg her Indian boy. And then I will her charmed eye release from monster's view... and all things shall be peace.

Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself.

I love talking about nothing, Father. It's the only thing I know anything about.

So do I, Father. Everyone one meets is a paradox nowadays. It makes society so - obvious.

Well, there's nothing I like more than to be congratulated, though invariably I find the pleasure immeasurably increased when I know what for.

My dear father, when one pays a visit, it is for the purpose of wasting other people's time and not one's own.

Gertrude, it is not the perfect, but rather the imperfect who have need of love.

Oh, I hope not. All I know, Gertrude, is that it takes great courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it. And even more courage to see it in the one you love. Gertrude, you have more courage than any woman I have ever known. Do not be afraid now to use it.

Excuse me a moment. I'm in the middle of my performance of the attentive son.

It is a great nuisance. I can't find anyone else to talk to. I'm so full of interesting information, I feel like the latest edition of something or other. Well, after some consideration... so much to do, there's only one thing to be done. There comes a time in every son's life when he must, indeed, follow his father's advice: I shall go to bed at once.

Yes, but the fact is, father, this is not my day for talking seriously.

I mean that, during the season, father, I only talk seriously on the first Tuesday in every month. Between noon and three.

Yes, but we're not out of danger yet. In fact, I believe there's a rather popular saying about frying pans and fires, except now it is you and I, dear Gertrude, who are to be roasted.

Shouldn't you be in bed, Miss Mabel?

My father always tells me to go to bed, so I don't see why I shouldn't give you the same advice. I always pass on good advice. It is the only sensible thing to do with it.

Once a man has set his heart and soul on getting to a certain point, if he has to climb the crag, he has to climb the crag. If he has to walk in the mire...

Well, then, he has to walk, my dear Gertrude, in the mire.

My dear Robert, secrets from other people's wives are a necessary luxury in modern life. But no man should have a secret from his own wife. She invariably finds it out.

I'm sorry, but, I don't seem to be able to stop myself. And I'm going to tell you that love - about which, I admit, I know so little - love cannot be bought, it can only be given. And I sense it is not in my power to give to you, nor is it in yours, I suspect, at all.

To give - and not expect return, that is what lies at the heart of love. I fear, though, the notion is a stranger to us both. And yet, if we are honest, it is something we both long for. Something that it takes great courage to do. Yes, that is our *dark* secret. Your coming here tonight is the first whisper of it. And for that, I admire you.