Mary. Listen to it! Listen! Listen! This is better than any poor Mary.
She goes out. The door is left open. The applause breaks out again.
Shakespeare. Is this the golden apple in my hand At last? How tastes it, heart, and is it sweet, is it sweet? Sweeter than common apples? So many years Of days I watched it grow and propped and pruned, Besought the sun and watered. O my tree When the green broke! That was a morning hour. Fool, so to long for fruit! Now the fruit’s ripe. The tree in spring was fairest, when it flowered, And every petal held a drink of dew. The bloom went long ago. Well, the fruit’s here! Hark! The applause breaks out again. It goes well. Eat up your apple, man! This is the hour, the hour! I’m the same man— No better for it. When Marlowe praised me so He meant it—meant it. I thought he laughed at me In his sleeve. Will Shakespeare! Romeo and Juliet! I made it—I! Indeed, indeed, at heart— (I would not for the world they read my heart: I’d scarce tell Mary) but indeed, at heart, I know no song was ever sung before Like this my lovely song. I made it—I! It has not changed me. I’m the same small man, And yet I made it! Strange! [A knock.]
Stage Hand [putting in his head at the door]. You’ll not see anyone, sir, will you?
Shakespeare. I told you already I’ll come to the green-room when the show’s over. I can see no stranger before.
Stage Hand. So I’ve told her, sir, many times. But she says you will know her when you see her and she can’t wait.
Shakespeare. A lady?
Stage Hand. No, no, sir, just a woman. I’ll tell her to go away again.
Shakespeare. Wait! Did she give no name?
Stage Hand. Name of Hathaway, sir, from Stratford.