I came across…

The Lady’s Not for Burning (by Christopher Fry) this morning during another aimless net browse. Delightful play. I spent all day reading it. Here’s just a couple of fragments from near the beginning:

I must tell you,
I’ve just been reborn.

Nicholas, you always think
You can do things better than your mother. You can be sure
You were born quite adequately on the first occasion.


Are you his brother?

No. All I can claim as my flesh and blood
Is what I stand up in. I wasn’t born,
I was come-across. In the dusk of one Septuagesima,
A priest found an infant, about ten inches long,
Crammed into the poor-box. The money had all
Been taken. Nothing was there except myself,
I was the baby as it turned out. The priest,
Thinking I might have eaten the money, held me
Upside down and shook me, which encouraged me
To live, I suppose, and I lived.

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