Anne. My mother told me.
Shakespeare. She heard us? Did she hear—they’ve read the play, And the Queen’s asked for me! London, Anne! London! I’ll send you London home, my lass, by the post— Such frocks and fancies! London! London, Anne! And you, you know? and speed me hence? By God, That’s my own wife at last, all gold to me And goodness! Anne, be better to me still And help me hence to-night!
Anne. It dips, it dies, A night-light, Mother, and no star. I grope Giddily in the dark.
Shakespeare. What did she tell you?
Anne. No matter. Oh, it earns not that black look. London? the Queen? I’ll help you, oh, be sure! Too glad to see you glad.
Shakespeare. Anne, it’s good-bye To Stratford till the game’s won.
Anne. What care I So you are satisfied? The farm must go— That’s little—
Shakespeare. Must it go?
Anne. Dreamer, how else Shall we two live in London?
Shakespeare. We, do you say? They’d have me travel with them—a rough life—