Anne. I am! I am! I am! Oh, how can I be happy when I read Your eyes, and read—what is it that I read?
Shakespeare. God knows!
Anne. Yes, God He knows, but He’s so far away— Tell Anne!
Shakespeare. Touch not these cellar thoughts, half worm, half weed: Give them no light, no air: be warned in time: Break not the seal nor roll away the stone, Lest the blind evil writhe itself heart-high And its breath stale us!
Anne. Oh, what evil?
Shakespeare. Know you not? Why then I’ll say “Thank God!” and never tell you— And yet I think you know?
Anne. Am I your wife, Wiser than your own mother in your ways (For she was wise for many, I’ve but you) Ways in my heart stored, and with them the unborn I feed, that he may grow a second you— Am I your wife, so close to you all day, So close to you all night, that oft I lie Counting your heart-beats—do I watch you stir And cry out suddenly and clench your hand Till the bone shows white, and then you sigh and turn, And sometimes smile, but never ope your eyes, Nor know me with a seeking touch of hands That bids me share the dream—am I your wife, Can I be woman and your very wife And know not you are burdened? You lock me out, Yet at the door I wait, wringing my hands To help you.
Shakespeare. You could help me; but—I know you! You’d help me, in your way, to go—your way!
Anne. The right way.
Shakespeare. Said I not, sweetheart—your way? So—leave it! He begins to write. Anne goes to the window and leans against it looking out.