Anne.—and when she turns To stone, to a stone, to an unvouchsafing stone Under your clutch—
Shakespeare. You rave!
Anne.—loved hands, remember Me unloved then, and how my hands held you! And when her face—for I am prophecy— When her lost face, the woman I am not, Stares from the page you toil upon, thus, thus, In a glass of tears, remember then that thus, No other way, I see your face between my work and me, Always!
Shakespeare. Make end and let me go!
Anne [she has risen]. Why, go! But mock me not with any “Let me go”! I do not hold you. Ah, but when you’re old (You will be old one day, as I am old Already in my heart), too weary-old For love, hate, pity, anything but peace, When the long race, O straining breast! is won, And the bright victory drops to your outstretched hand, A windfall apple, not worth eating, then Come back to me—
Shakespeare [at the door]. Farewell!
Anne.—when all your need Is hands to serve you and a breast to die on, Come back to me—
Shakespeare. Never in any world!
He goes out as the last figure passes the window, and disappears.
The Players’ Voices [dying away]. For snow will fall And cover all Without you, without you— The words are lost.