Anne. What! the Queen! the Queen?
Henslowe. Oh, she keeps her eye on poor players as well as on Burleigh and the fleet. There’s God Almighty in the wings if you like! But as I say—
Whatever barn we storm, here in the west, We’re marching to the echo of new songs, Jigged out in taverns, trolled along the street, Loosed under sweetheart windows, whistled and sighed Wherever a farmer’s boy in Lover’s Lane Shifts from the right foot to the left and waits— “Where did you hear it?” say I, beating time: And always comes the answer—“Stratford way!” A green parish, Stratford!
Shakespeare. Too flat, though I love it. Give me hills to climb!
Henslowe. Flat? You should see Norfolk, where I was a boy. From sky to sky there’s no break in the levels but shock-head willows and reed tussocks where a singing bird may nest. But in which? Oh, for that you must sit unstirring in your boat, between still water and still sky, while the drips run off your blade until, a yard away, uprises the song. Then, flash! part the rushes—the nest is bare and the bird your own! Oh, I know the ways of the water birds! And so, hearing of a cygnet on the banks of Avon—
Anne. Ah!
Henslowe. You’re right, Madonna, the poetical vein runs dry. So I’ll end with a plain question—“Is not Thames broader than Avon?”
Shakespeare. Muddier—
Henslowe. But a magical water to hasten the moult, to wash white a young swan’s feathers.
Shakespeare. Or black, Mephisto!