Anne. Why, a murderess Has respite in my case—and I—and I— What have I done but love you, when all’s said? You will not leave me now, now when that lie Is certain truth at last, and in me sleeps Like God’s forgiveness? For I felt it stir When you were angry—I was angry too, My fault, all mine—but I was sick and faint And frightened, so I railed, because no word Matched with the strong need in me suddenly For gentlest looks and your beloved arms About this body changed and shaking so; But why I knew not. But my mother knew And told me.
Shakespeare. O wise mother!
Anne. Will, it’s true!
Shakespeare. Practice makes perfect, as we wrote at school!
Anne. I swear to you—
Shakespeare. As then you swore to me. Not twice, not twice, my girl!
Anne. O God, God Son! Pitiful God! If there be other lives, As I have heard him say, as his books say, In other bodies, for Your Mother’s sake And all she knows (God, ask her what she knows!) Let me not be a woman! Let me be Some twisting worm on a hook, or fish they catch And fling again to catch another year, Or otter trapped and broiled in the sun three days, Or lovely bird whose living wing men tear From its live body, or of Italy Some peasant’s drudge-horse whipped upon its eyes, Or let me as a heart-burst, screaming hare Be wrenched in two by slavering deaths for sport; But let me not again be cursed a woman Surrendered to the mercy of her man!
She sinks down in a crouching heap by the hearth. There has been a sound of many voices drawing nearer, and as she ceases speaking, the words of a song become clear.
The Players [singing]. Come with us to London, Folly, come away! We’ll make your fortune On a summer day. Leave your sloes and mulberries! There are riper fruits than these, In London, in London, Oh, London Town! For winds will blow And barley grow Without you, without you, And the world get on without you— Oh, London Town!
The voices drop to a low hum. Henslowe thrusts his head in at the window.