Mistress S. Why didst not come home—and what dost thou want with this stranger?
Anne. He would go to London with him.
Mistress S. [aghast]. To London. My Will?
Will [quietly]. Thou knowest, mother, what I ha' told thee, things I told to no other, and now the good time has come that I can see more of England.
Mistress S. But I canna let thee go. Oh, Anne, I knew the boy was restless, but I did not think for it so soon. He is only a boy.
Will [coloring]. In two years I shall be a man—I am a man now in spirit. I canna stay in Stratford. [Mistress Shakespeare sinks down in a chair.]
Mistress S. What o' me? And, Will, 'twill break thy father's heart! [Will looks ashamed.]
Will. I know, he would not understand. 'Tis hard. He must not know till I be gone.
Mistress S. [To Peele]. Oh, sir, how could you wish to lead the lad away? Hath not London enough a'ready?
Peele [who has been listening uncomfortably, faces her gravely]. I but played with the lad at first, till I saw how earnest he was; then I would take him, for I loved his boldness. But, boy, I'll tell thee fairly, thou'lt do better here. Thou'st seen the brave side of it, the gay dresses, the good horses, the cheering crowds and the court-favor. But 'tis dark sometimes, too. The pouches often hang empty when the people turn away—the lords are as the clouded sun, now smiling, now cold—and there come the bitter days, when a man has no friends but the pot-mates of the moment, when every man's hand is against him for a vagabond and a rascal, when the prison-gates lay ever wide before him, and the fickle folk, crying after a new favorite, leave the old to starve.