Henslowe. I asked her, did she know me? Yes, she said, And would I rest and eat? So much she said To the lawn behind me—oh, to the hollyhock Stiff at my elbow—to a something—nothing— But not to me. I could not eat her food. I told her so. She nodded. Oh, she knows How thoughts run in a man. No fool, no fool! I spoke of you. She listened.
Shakespeare. Questioned you?
Henslowe. Never a question.
Shakespeare. She said nothing?
Henslowe. Nothing.
Shakespeare. Not like her.
Henslowe. But her eyes spoke, as I came By way of London, Juliet, ‘The Rose,’ And the Queen’s great favour (“And why not?” they said) Again to silence; so, as I turned to go I asked her—“Any greeting?” Then she said, Lifting her chin as if she sped her words Far, far, like pigeons flung upon the air, And soft her voice as bird-wings—then she said, “Tell him the woods are green at Shottery, Fuller of flowers than any wood in the world.” “What else?” said I. She said—“The wind still blows Fresh between park and river. Tell him that!” Said I—“No message, letter?” Then she said, Twisting her hands—“Tell him the days are long. Tell him—” and suddenly ceased. Then, with good-bye Pleasantly spoken, and another look At some wraith standing by me, not at me, Went back into the house and shut the door.
Shakespeare. Ay, shut the door, Henslowe; for had she been this she Ten years ago and I this other I— Well, I have friends to love! Heard Marlowe’s news? He’s three-part through Leander! Oh, this Marlowe! I mine for coal but he digs diamonds.
Henslowe. Yet fill your scuttle lest the world grow chill! Is the new play done?
Shakespeare. No.