[Vamp Willow and Vamp Xander stand by Sunnydale sign, smoking. Spike enters and knocks over the sign.]

Either I mistake your hair and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd William the Bloody: are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim blood, and sometimes labour in the quern
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Vampire call you and unsweet Spike,
You do their harm, and they shall have bad luck:
Are not you he?

Thou speak'st aright;
 am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Drucilla and make her smile
When I a fat and bean-fed tart beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
And sometime lurk I in a crowded bar,
In very likeness of a roasted drab,
And when they drink, against their necks I bob
A merrier hour was never wasted there.
But, room, vamp! here comes Drucilla
My dark and wicked plum.

[Enter Drucilla]

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety: other women cloy
The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies; for vilest things
Become themselves in her: that the holy priests
Bless her when she is riggish.

They say the owl was a baker's daughter.
Lord, we know what we are,
But know not what we may be.
There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue
for you; and here's some for me: we may call it
herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with
a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you
some violets, but they withered all when my father
died: they say he made a bad end,
At my sire’s hand

5

Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the
little ones: I can compare our great vamps to
nothing so fitly as to a whale; a' plays and
tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at
last devours them all at a mouthful:
So Spike and Drucilla are consuming dark,
and she is altogether mad.
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

So, who do you kill for fun around here?

Humans, Romans, countrymen, They lend us their ears
Demons in the service of that dread lord Adam,
Minions in the service of the creamy goddess,
Black clad soldiers,
Tweed clad watchers,
And it seems these days Slayers
Come in threes and fours.

Slayers, kill them for us, Kill them all dead
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.

Since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief: your noble lady is mad:
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
But let that go.

Let me not to marriage to two minds
Admit impediment.
But rather, take these boots
Made for walking,
To walk all over Slayers.

[Enter Darla and Vamp Willow]

Words, words, words,
Brave words from love’s bitch

Now souls drown, wherein he dress'd himself,
In grief. Wakes to look so green and pale
At what once he did so freely? From this time
Such I account Angel’s love. Art afeard
To be the same in his own act and valour
As his art in death? Wouldst he have that
Which he esteem'st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in mine own esteem,
Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'
Like the poor cat i' the adage?
Now injuries to wounds, he loves, loves
Some trammeled chick of a Slayer.

O, beware, my lady, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!

Villain, be sure thou prove my Angelus loves,
Be sure of it; give me the ocular proof:
Or by the worth of man's eternal soul,
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog
Than answer my waked wrath!

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow:
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;
Lay by these:--
Nay, that's not next.--Hark! who is't that knocks?

It's the wind, love

I yawn at thee
Is’t come to this?

What we were informs who we are,
To be more what we were, he would
Be so much more than man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet he would make both:
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake him. I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the childe that sucks me:
I would, while he was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his teeth and gums,
And dash'd the brains out, had I so changed as he.

Full fathom five my father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell

I may be love’s bitch,
But at least I’m man enough to admit.
Angel has suffered a sea change,
The sea can change him back.
Magic always has consequences,
Curses always have outs.

To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your soulful Valentine.
To make the beast with two backs,
Spending soul upon itself, die.
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber-door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.

To dye black his new cursed soul,
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,
Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty,--
I kissed my Angel ere I killed him.
No way but this;
That death’s unnatural that kills for loving
Dying myself, to die upon a kiss.

My ungentle Spike, come hither. Thou rememberest
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music.

I remember.

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
Mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

I'll put a girdle round about the earth
I’ll go and catch a falling star,
Get with childe a mandrake root,
Tell you, where all past years are,
Or who cleft the Devil's foot,
Where to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an dishonest mind.

[Black clad commandoes run up, slap a chip on Spike’s head and run away.]

Bloody Hell. Owe!

No Matter, having once this juice,
I'll watch Angelic boy when he sleep,
And drop the liquor of it in his eyes.
The next thing then he waking looks upon,
Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
He shall pursue it with the soul of love:
I'll make him render up his soul to me.
Come away.
[Exuent all]