Anne. A fortune-teller too!
Henslowe. Will you cross my palm with a sixpence, Madonna?
Anne. With nothing.
Henslowe. Beware lest I tell you for nothing that you—fear your fortune!
Shakespeare [spreading his hand]. Is mine worth fearing?
Henslowe. Here’s an actor’s hand, and a bad one. You’ll lose your words, King o’ Hearts. Your great scenes will break down.
Shakespeare. Then I’ll be ’prenticed direct to the Ace.
Henslowe. Too fast. You must come to cues like the rest of us, and play out your part, before you can be God Almighty in the wings—as God himself found out when the world was youngish.
Anne. We’re plain people, sir, and my husband works his farm.
Henslowe. And sings songs? I’ve been trying out a new play in the provinces before we risk London and Gloriana—