Mary. Why, is it not meant to move me?
Shakespeare. You should not laugh. I tell you such a thought, Such fiery lava welling from a heart, So crystalled in the wonder-working brain, Mined by the soul and rough-cut into words Fit for a poet’s faceting and, last, Strung on a string of gold by a golden tongue— Why, such a thought is an immortal jewel To gild you, living, in men’s eyes, and after To make you queen of all the unjewelled dead Who bear not their least bracelet hence. For I, Eternally I’d deck you, were you my own, Would you but wear my necklaces divine, My rings of sorcery, my crowns of song. What chains of emeralds—did you but know! My rubies, O my rubies—could you but see! And this one gem of wonder, pearl of pearls, Hid in my heart for you, could you but take, Would you but take—
Shakespeare. Not so. The god who made it hath forgot the key, Or lost or lent it.
Mary. Heartless god! Poor heart! Yet if this key—(is there indeed a key?)
Shakespeare. No lock without a key, nor heart, nor heart.
Mary. —were found one day and strung with other keys Upon my ring?
Shakespeare. With other—?
Mary. Keys of hearts! What else? Tucked in the casket where my mortals lie— Sick pearl, flawed emerald, brooch or coronet—
Shakespeare. God!