Anne. That too, O God!
Shakespeare. And if I hurt you—for I know I do, I’m not so rapt—think of me, if you can, As a man stifled that wildly throws his arms, Raking the air for room—for room to breathe, And so strikes unaware, unwillingly, His lover!
Anne. I could sooner think of you Asleep, and I beside you with the child, And all this passion ended, as it must, In quiet graves; for we have been such lovers As there’s no room for in the human air And daylight side of the grass. What shall I do? And how live on? Why did you marry me?
Shakespeare. You know the why of that.
Anne. Too well we know it, I and the child. You have well taught this fool That thought a heart of dreams, a loving heart, A soul, a self resigned, could better please Than the blind flesh of a woman; for God knows Your self drew me, the folded man in you, Not, not the boy-husk.
Shakespeare. Yet the same God knows When folly was, you willed it first, not I.
Anne. Old! Old as Adam! and untrue, untrue! Why did you come to me at Shottery, Out of your way, so often? laugh with me Apart, and answer for me as of right, As if you knew me better (ah, it was sweet!) Than my own brothers? And on Sunday eves You’d wait and walk with me the long way home From church, with me alone, the foot-path way, Across the fields where wild convolvulus Strangles the corn—
Shakespeare. Strangles the corn indeed!
Anne.—and still delay me talking at the stile, Long after curfew, under the risen moon. Why did you come? Why did you stay with me, To make me love, to make me think you loved me?
Shakespeare. Oh, you were easy, cheap, you flattered me.