Anne. Why no! No trouble! I am not beaten, starved, nor put on the street.
Mrs. Hathaway. Be wise, be wise, for the child’s sake, be wiser!
Anne. What shall I do? Out of your fifty years, What shall I do to hold him?
Mrs. Hathaway. A low voice And a light heart is best—and not to judge.
Anne. Light, Mother, light? Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother! I’m battling on the crumble-edge of loss Against a seaward wind, that drives his ship To fortunate isles, but carries me cliff over, Clutching at flint and thistle-hold, to braise me Upon the barren benches he has left For ever.
Shakespeare and the player, Henslowe, come in talking.
Mrs. Hathaway [at the inner door]. Come, find my basket for me. Let them be!
Anne. Look at him, how his face lights up!
Mrs. Hathaway. Come now, And leave them to it!
Anne. I dare not, Mother, I dare not.