Anne’s Voice. You’re to be great—
Shakespeare. Stale! Stale! That’s the Queen’s catch-word.
Anne’s Voice. But I know, I know, I’m your poor village woman, but I know What you must learn and learn, and shriek to God To spare you learning—
Shakespeare. Ay, like wheels that shriek, Carting the grain, their dragged unwilling way Over the stones, uphill, at even, thus, Shrieking, I learn—
Anne’s Voice. When harvest comes—
Shakespeare. Is come! Sown, sprouted, scythed and garnered—
Anne’s Voice. I alone Can give you comfort, for you reap my pain, As I your loss—loss—loss—
Shakespeare. Anne, was it thus?
Anne’s Voice. No other way—
Shakespeare. Such pain?