Sometimes we sickened of one another and quarreled, our masculinity distressing us: men and boys, men and boys—that was our disease! What women would have meant to us, in London especially, where the theatre was spoiled. What it would have meant to have a girl strut across the boards and smile a smutty smile. Chafing would have disappeared.
I longed to see Desdemona as a girl would play her; I wanted to see Cleopatra acted by a woman, Lady Macbeth by a skilled player—not castrated boys, our sexless wire-sounding temperamentalists.
Who wants boys primping, boys in women’s hats, giggling over skirts and bows? Scratching fleas in baboon areas? Crying for their mamas?
Our groundlings wanted women to go to bed with.
Lords, ladies, and soldiery wanted women.
Everyone is sick of boys!
Soldiers, in their half-armor, jeer at us!
It is afternoon—warm and sunny!
Women, wearing eye masks, are chatting and taking seats at the Globe. Hawkers, bright yellow bands around their waists, are selling books and cakes and ale, passing among the theatre crowd. Dandies are getting settled in an area close to the stage. Swords clatter as soldiers find seats; a captain bows to a Jesuit priest. Someone strums a zither and croaks a bawdy ballad. Workers shove their way past the gate, afraid to miss a word of the beginning.