Mary. Why, that’s a common cry, I hear it daily, like the London cries, “Old chairs to mend!” or “Sweet, sweet lavender!” Is this your string of pearls, sixteen a penny?
Shakespeare. D’you laugh at me? I mean it.
Mary. So do they all. Buy! Buy my lavender! Lady, it’s cheap— It’s sweet—new cut—I starve—for Christ’s sake, buy! They mean it, all the hoarse-throat, hungry men That sell me lavender, that sell me love.
Shakespeare. I put my wares away. I do not sell.
Mary. O pedlar! I had half a mind to buy.
Shakespeare. Too late.
Mary. Open your pack again! What haste! What—not a trinket left me, not a pin For a poor lady? Does not the offer hold?
Shakespeare. You did not close.
Mary. I will.
Shakespeare. Withdrawn! Withdrawn!