March 28, 1616
When I was twenty, splendid, strong, I thought it would be noble to die in the Spring: ah, noble death I praised you childishly. This is springtime, and I see no signs of nobility.
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry—
how like a poem those lines read, and lie! At that time, when I wrote that sonnet, I was never more in love with life.
For days the rain has been falling over the town, fine rain, grey rain that is determined to shatter the last of my courage...for days.
Ann stands by my bedside, a plate of food in her hands, urging me to eat: “Take something...it will help you, Will.”
Susanna sits by my side and sighs, “Papa, Papa.”
Alleyn visits me, his voice warming my room, in the beaten way of friendship.