Mary. Are you so womanish that a breath of pain—
Shakespeare. A breath! God, listen! A breath, a summer breath!
Mary. —could blow away your honour?
Shakespeare. Once it was mine. I laid it up with you. Where is it now? I’m stripped of honour like an oak in June Whose leaves a curse of caterpillars eat, That stands a mockery to flowers and men, With naked arms praying the lightning down.
Anne’s Voice. At Shottery the woods are green—
Shakespeare. My God!
Anne’s Voice. And full of flowers—
Shakespeare. Let be, let be! My honour? I bought it with a woman—not like you, A faithless-faithful woman—not like you; But weak as I’m weak, loving as I love, God help her! not like you—no black-eyed Spain Whose cheeks hang out their red to match the red When bull meets man—no luxury that wears A lover like new clothes, and all the while Eyes other women’s fashions; but a woman That should have loved me less, poor fool, and less—
Mary. You should have loved me less, my fool, and less!
Shakespeare. Yet from this folly all the music springs That is in the world, and all my hopes that ranged Lark-high in heaven! Yet murder comes of it. Look where he lies! He was true friend to me, And I to him, until you came, you came.