Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the

Host: The theatre was empty now — its velvet seats dark with shadow, its chandeliers unlit, its echo filled only by the faint creak of the wooden stage. The scent of dust, candle wax, and old applause lingered like a ghost refusing to leave.

A single spotlight, left on by habit, cast a pale circle at center stage. Jack stood within it, holding a folded script — the ink faded, the corners bent. Jeeny sat in the front row, elbows on her knees, chin resting on her hands, watching him with a soft, measured interest.

Outside, the city’s hum filtered faintly through the walls — car horns and distant footsteps blending with the theatre’s silence, the world and the play bleeding into one.

Jeeny: “Shakespeare wrote, ‘Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them.’”

Jack: (smiling wryly) “He might as well have been talking about every politician who’s ever lived.”

Jeeny: “Or every artist.”

Jack: “Ouch.”

Jeeny: “You know it’s true. Art and politics share one addiction — applause.”

Jack: “But applause is honest. The people either clap or they don’t.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Applause isn’t honesty — it’s hunger. People clap for what feeds their illusion.”

Host: A faint breeze slipped through the curtains, rustling them like fabric that remembered movement. The light on the stage flickered once, then steadied — a heartbeat in illumination.

Jack: “So Shakespeare’s accusing greatness of hypocrisy?”

Jeeny: “Not hypocrisy. Compromise. He’s saying even the ‘great men’ — kings, heroes, poets — bowed to the crowd. They shaped truth to please those who would never truly love them.”

Jack: “Love’s overrated anyway. Power lasts longer.”

Jeeny: “Does it? Ask Caesar.”

Jack: (smirking) “Or Macbeth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They were masters of persuasion — and slaves to it.”

Host: Jack stepped closer to the edge of the stage. His shadow stretched long over the wooden boards, split by the light — half bright, half black.

Jack: “So you think every leader flatters the people?”

Jeeny: “Not every leader. Every human. We all perform. We all want to be adored by those who don’t understand us — and sometimes can’t.”

Jack: “Flattery as survival, then.”

Jeeny: “As currency.”

Jack: “Shakespeare knew that better than anyone. He wrote for the masses and mocked them at the same time.”

Jeeny: “He was the first to see that love and flattery are cousins — one sincere, one strategic.”

Jack: “So maybe greatness depends on deceit.”

Jeeny: “No. Greatness depends on knowing when to stop deceiving.”

Host: The air grew heavy — not tense, but thoughtful. The silence between their words carried the weight of recognition.

Jack: “You ever think about how lonely that must’ve been? To know the cheers aren’t for you, but for the mask you wear?”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of every ‘great man.’ He becomes the myth he invented. The people love the reflection, not the soul.”

Jack: “And yet — he still needs them. Without the crowd, there is no greatness. No echo.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The applause that builds you also buries you.”

Host: Jeeny rose from her seat and walked slowly down the aisle toward the stage, her footsteps soft against the velvet carpet.

Jeeny: “Maybe Shakespeare’s line isn’t about power at all. Maybe it’s about faith — misplaced faith. The kind that turns admiration into illusion.”

Jack: “Faith in people who don’t love you.”

Jeeny: “Faith in the idea that love can be earned by performance.”

Jack: “We’re all guilty of that.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why it stings.”

Host: The spotlight shifted as Jeeny stepped into it beside him. Their faces were both half-lit — two halves of the same confession.

Jack: “So the ‘great men’ aren’t villains. They’re just desperate.”

Jeeny: “Desperate to be seen. To be remembered. To be forgiven by a crowd that never cared.”

Jack: “You think Shakespeare pitied them?”

Jeeny: “No. He recognized them. Maybe he even saw himself in them. The man who wrote kings but died a merchant of words — beloved by a public who never truly knew him.”

Jack: “Then maybe flattery is just another kind of prayer — one said to the wrong god.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes. The god of approval.”

Host: A pause. The light hummed above them, casting their breath in faint halos. Dust floated like snow in the still air.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Every time I’ve stood on a stage, I tell myself I don’t care about the audience. But I do. I always do.”

Jeeny: “Because the audience is proof that you exist. Without them, the performance vanishes into air.”

Jack: “But if they don’t love me…”

Jeeny: “Then you love them enough to pretend.”

Host: The curtains swayed gently, the whisper of velvet against air. The theatre, for a moment, felt alive again — as though the ghosts of every actor, every speech, every bow still lingered, unwilling to exit the scene.

Jeeny: “You see, Shakespeare’s not condemning greatness. He’s exposing its cost. To lead, to perform, to inspire — you must flatter the crowd that doubts you. And in doing so, you lose a little of yourself each time.”

Jack: “Until the applause becomes the only sound you recognize.”

Jeeny: “And silence feels like failure.”

Host: The final flicker of the light dimmed slightly, leaving the edges of their faces in shadow. Jeeny looked up at him — eyes steady, expression soft.

Jeeny: “But here’s the grace in it: even if they never loved you, you still gave them something beautiful. A story. A moment. A truth wrapped in flattery.”

Jack: “So, greatness survives not through love, but through offering.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Through giving more than you get.”

Host: The light finally dimmed to a warm amber — the color of endings. The two stood together at center stage, surrounded by ghosts of voices, of faith, of applause that still echoed somewhere deep in the wooden ribs of the hall.

And in that sacred half-darkness, Shakespeare’s words rose like a truth carved in time:

That faith is fragile,
and greatness is lonely.
That the people’s love is fickle,
and their praise is never pure.

That those who lead, create, or dream
will often speak softly to hearts
that never return the echo.

But they speak anyway —
because silence is a kind of death,
and flattery, however hollow,
is still proof that the human voice longs to be heard.

Host: Jeeny turned toward the seats, the vast emptiness before them.

Jeeny: “They may never love us, Jack.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then let’s make them listen instead.”

Host: The spotlight went out.

The echo of their voices lingered — not as vanity, but as devotion.

And somewhere, in the dark of the theatre,
the ghost of Shakespeare smiled —
knowing the play, as always,
would go on.