Shakespeare. A lie! A gross lie! He never called me father.
Mrs. Hathaway. That he does! You are his Merlin and his Arthur too, And God-Almighty Sundays. Thus it goes— “My Father says—” and “When my Father comes—” “I’ll tell my Father!” To his mother’s hand He clings and whispers in his fever now, With bright eyes wide—your eyes, son, your quick eyes— That she shall fetch you (she? she cannot speak) To bring him wonders home like Whittington, (And where’s your cat?) and tell the tales you know Of Puck and witches, and the English kings, To whistle down the birds as Orpheus did, And for a silver penny pick the moon From the sky’s pocket, and buy him gingerbread— And so he rambles on, breaking her heart A second time, God help her!
Shakespeare. I will come.
A Man’s Voice [off the stage]. Shakespeare! Will Shakespeare! Call Will Shakespeare!
Shakespeare [to Mrs. Hathaway]. Here! When do we start?
Mrs. Hathaway. The horses wait at the inn.
Voice. Will Shakespeare!
Shakespeare. Give me an hour. The bridge is nearer. On London Bridge at midnight! I’ll be there!
Mrs. Hathaway. Not later, I warn you, if you’d see the child alive.