But I can no longer write!
Snow beats on the windows and winter chills me, cold hands on my throat. Where are my faithful players? Where is Alleyn—speaking divinely? If I could talk to him I might be able to write again. If this storm did not batter this house so treacherously!
Green lozenges of light penetrate the oriel,
green drinking mugs,
green on table decanter,
Shakespeare and Jonson drinking.
Stratford streets in the late afternoon sun,
sounds of a carriage,
sounds of kids coming home from school.
Jonson quotes a line,