The afternoon sun poured through the open door. “Your hair ain’t red like it was,” said Jim.
“You’re getting bald,” said Dick. “The hair’s slipping down your neck.”
Bells of London startled them and helped send them on their way, and I went to sleep, amused by Jonson’s mimicry and laughter, as he sprawled in his chair, head thrown back, one hand on Pericles’ mane.
Stratford
My brothers’ visit reminded me of our hometown Ned.
Ned used to lie on the ground with pads underneath his shoulders: an anvil, weighing two hundred weight, was lowered on his chest by huskies, and three men with sledges bent a bar on it as he lay there. Ned performed at every Fair, girls ogling. The picture of him and his admirers delights me: hero with anvil and hammer. How I used to envy him. Ann thought he was a wonder. He was. And now I wonder what became of him?
Henley Street
November 13, 1615