I talked to them as best I could and then a fat wench bleated, jerking at her gloves:
“You talk in riddles, sir. Your plays ridicule us. You disesteem our monarchs, King Richard for one. Your plays attract the vulgar. You praise the rotten...”
By standing, I asked them to leave: perhaps they felt the pain I felt; then my sickness grew worse after their visit.
An apple tree shakes out a boy:
The boy, Linnus, performs acrobatics in the branches:
He’s fourteen.
Laughter:
Then King Lear’s voice:
“Never, never, never, never...”
Henley Street