Anne. You heard him.
Henslowe. We ask you.
Anne. It’s his house.
Henslowe [humming]. While fortune waits Within the gates Of London, of London— He must be quick!
Anne. Am I to tell him so?
Henslowe. The new moon’s up and reaping in a sky Like corn—that’s frost! A bitter travelling night Before us—
Anne [going to the window]. So it is.
Henslowe. Not through the glass! You’ll buy ill luck of the moon.
Anne. I bought ill fortune Long months ago under the shifty moon, I saw her through the midnight glass of the air, Milky with light, when trees my casement were, And little twigs the leads that held my pane. I’m out of luck for ever.
Henslowe. Did I not tell you you feared your fortune? But there are some in the company can tell you a better, if you’ll let ’em in.