Anne. Who knows?
Shakespeare. Did you not tell me March?
Anne. Easter—
Shakespeare. That’s May! It should be March.
Anne. It—should be—March—
Shakespeare. Why, Anne?
Anne. Stay with me longer! Wait till Whitsuntide, Till June, till summer comes, and if, when you see Your own son, still you’ll leave us, why, go then! But sure, you will not go.
Shakespeare. Summer? Why summer? It should be spring, not summer—
Anne. I’ll not bear These questions, like coarse fingers, prying out My secrets.
Shakespeare. Secrets?