Henslowe. The Queen. I’ve seen it in her eye.
Anne. I should not fear.
Henslowe. You never saw the Queen of England smile And crook her finger, once—and the fate falls.
Anne. I’ve seen her picture. She’s eaten of a worm As I am eaten. I’d not fear the Queen. Her snake would know its fellow in my heart And pass me. But this woman—what’s her name?
Henslowe. Mary—
Anne. That’s “bitter.” I shall find her so. Shakespeare comes in with Mrs. Hathaway. Look at him! Fear the Queen? Did not the Queen, My sister, meet a Mary long ago That bruised her in the heel?
Henslowe. Man, your wife’s mad! She says the Queen’s her sister.
Anne. Mad, noble Festus? Not I! But tell him so—he’ll kiss you for it.
Henslowe. I’ll meet you, friend, some other time or place—