Giles. Then whoi cunst thee not bustle? Be I to lose my loongs over 'ee?
Anne [simply]. Mistress Shakespeare called me to the butt'ry door. Will hath not been home all day, and she is fair anxious. She bade me send him home once I saw him.
Peele [drinking noisily]. Who is it? [Anne is clearing the table.]
Giles [shortly]. Poor John Shakespeare's son Will.
Peele. A Stratford lad? A straw-headed beater of clods!
Giles. Nay, zur. A wild young un, as 'ull do noa honest work, but dreams the day long, or poaches the graät woods wi' young loons o' like stomach.
Anne [indignantly, dropping a dish]. It's not true! He is no poacher.
Peele [grinning]. What a touchy lass! No poacher, eh?
Anne. Nay, sir, but the brightest lad in Stratford. He hath learning beyond the rest of us—and if he likes to wander i' the woods, 'tis for no ill—he loves the open air—and you should hear the little songs he makes!
Peele. Do all the lads find in you such a defender, or only—? [She turns away.] Nay, no offense! I should like to see this Will.