Mary. Not I, not I! I’m a woman of this world. Give me flesh and blood, not gossamer,
Honey and heart-ache, and a lovers’ moon.
Shakespeare. I read of lovers once in Italy— She was like you, such eyes of night, such hair. God took a week to make his world, but these In four short days made heaven to burn on earth Like a great torch; and when they died—
Mary. They died?
Shakespeare. Like torches quenched in water, suddenly, Because they loved too well.
Mary. Oh, write it down! Ah, could you, Will? I think you could not write it.
Shakespeare. I can write Romeo. Teach me Juliet!
Mary. I could if I would. Was that her name—Juliet?
Mary. Not so poor if I know her. Oh, make that plain—she was not poor! And tell them, Will, tell all men and women—