Anne. Think, when I hurt my hand With the wild rose, it was then you said “Dear Anne!”
Shakespeare. I have forgotten.
Anne. On Midsummer Eve— There was a dream about a wood you told me, Me—not another—
Shakespeare. I was drunk with dreams That night.
Anne. That night, that night you loved me, Will! Oh, never look at me and say—that night, Under the holy moon, there was no love!
Shakespeare. You knew it was not love.
Anne. O God, I knew, And would not know! You never came again. I hoped, I prayed. I hoped. I loved you so. You never came. And must I go to you? I was ashamed. Yet in the wood I waited, waited, Will, Night after night I waited, waited, Will, Till shame itself was swallowed up in pain, In pain of waiting, and—I went to you.
Shakespeare. That lie upon those loving lips?
Anne. That lie.