Anne. Secrets? I? I’ve none— I never meant—I know not why the word Came to me, “secret.” Yet you’re all secret thoughts And plans you do not share. Why should not I Be secret, if I choose? But see, I’ll tell you All, all—some other time—were there indeed A thing to tell—
Shakespeare. When will the child be born?
Anne. If it were—June? My mother said to-day It might be June—July—This woman’s talk Is not for you—
Shakespeare. July?
Anne. Oh, I must laugh Because you look and look—don’t look at me! June! May! I swear it’s May! I said the spring, And May is still the girlhood of the year.
Shakespeare. July! A round year since you came to me! Then—when you came to me, in haste, afraid, All tears, and clung to me, and white-lipped swore You had no friend but Avon if I failed you, It was a lie?
Anne. Don’t look at me!
Shakespeare. No need? You forced me with a lie?
Anne. Now there is—now!
Shakespeare. You locked me in this prison with a lie?