Anne. O God!
Henslowe. Your wife! She’s ill!
Shakespeare. Anne?
Anne. Let me be!
Shakespeare. Come to your mother—take my arm—
Anne. I’ll sit. I have no strength.
Shakespeare. I’ll call her to you. [He goes out.]
Anne. Quick! Before he comes, what is her name? her name? Her mood? her mind? In all the town of Stratford Was there no door but this to pound at? Quick! You know her? Did you see his look? O God! The last rope parts. He’s like a boat that strains, Strains at her moorings. Why did you praise her so? And talk of London? What’s it all to you? Tall, is she? Yes, like a tree—a block of wood— You said so! (Is he coming?) Tell me quick! I’ve never seen a London lady close. She’s lovely? So are many! How?
Henslowe. She’s new! She’s gallant, like a tall ship setting sail, And boasts she fears no man. Say “woman” though—
Anne. What woman does this woman fear?