University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—The garden of Shakespeare's cottage. Night, the moon behind clouds.
Enter Ann Shakespeare.
No, Anna, wert thou eyéd as the lynx,
It skilled not to hold vigil in this gloom.
Yet will I bar the exit with my body,
Till Dian aid me, maid celestial—
Hark, there be footsteps, and they draw anigh.
'Tis as I deemed, William is stealing forth,
Undoubtedly on some ill errand bound.

Shakespeare
[comes down the path, singing softly].
A fox went out on a shiny night,
And he asked the moon to lend him light.

Ann Shakespeare.
The fox I know, but fain would see the chicken.
Young, tender, toothsome she, I'll warrant her.

Shakespeare.
Now should I fetch what I have stored away,
But light is none, and none I dare to kindle,
Lest she be on the prowl.

Ann Shakespeare.
O holy Dian!
Revealing ray accord, O goddess chaste,
Ere yet his arms another have embraced.

Shakespeare.
O huntress-queen, grant guiding light to see
The treasure I have hid in hollow tree.

Diana
[invisible].
The prayers of both are heard.

[The moon breaks forth.
Ann Shakespeare.
What! William Shakespeare!
Come to the house this minute, sir; no, stay.
Where is the partner of thy sin?

Shakespeare.
In heaven,
Where my soul flits and hovers in her lustre;
Thither erect thy gaze, and there behold her.

Ann Shakespeare.
First, when thou stolest forth she was not shining;
Second, thou might'st have viewed her from the window;
Thirdly, thou art a most perfidious wretch.

Shakespeare.
Who would instruct thee, Anna, why the poet
Solely in free wide air, and face to face,
Worships the chaste and venerable Moon,
Were frustrate of his labour and his time.
But take it for a truth, and know no scene
In spacious Nature's various theatre
Hath like enchantment; whether silver crescent,
Or sphere of glory, or a waning sadness,
She is the bard's adored divinity.

Ann Shakespeare.
Let her be what she liketh, be she only
Lantern to lead me where thy leman lurks.

Shakespeare.
Search, nought thou'lt find, came comets down to light thee!
[While Ann Shakespeare searches the garden Shakespeare sings.

Ann Shakespeare
[returning].
I could not miss her in this moonshine, were she
Not spirited away by sorcery.

Shakespeare.
Taxest thou me with dealings with the devil?

Ann Shakespeare.
Aye, with Sir Belial, he's lascivious.

Shakespeare.
The venom clamours of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.
I should abhor thee, Anna, knew I not
Thy mood the black reflection of thy conscience.
Thou knowest thou hast wronged me, and dost deem
That I am like to pay thee back again.
Thou sawest thyself a sallow rose, with petals
So faded, it were better they were fallen:
Nor refuge could'st thou find in any bosom
Save one, where dwelt what I am bold to call
A gentle spirit, who did bend to soothe
The anguished soul with breathings of soft pity;
Which thou wert ready to mistake for love,
Imagination's fool. I fain would hope so.
For sure it were the office of a fiend
To rob me of my boyish innocence,
Marring the fair intent of kindly Nature,
Blighting the young unbudded rose of love,
And binding on my ignorance a burden
Then illy borne, now insupportable.
Nor way but one see I to loosen it.

Ann Shakespeare.
Innocent babe! and what of her who rules
The roost at Charlcote?

Shakespeare.
Ye both played for me,
Thou in dire earnest, she as for a counter:
And thou had'st wit to triumph in the game,
But not the wisdom well to ward thy winnings.
Much water since hath flowed 'neath Stratford bridge,
And now the counter shines a gem, more rich
Than coffered hoards of royal treasuries,
Poor to one love throb of a trusting heart.
Anna! if women knew a bosom's wealth!
But fools are they, whose trivial shallow spirits,
Nought giving, nought receive. Weak wanton Cupid
Shall quench his torch for me, and fall to slumber
By a cold valley fountain of the ground,
And I will seek a manly soul, and wear him
In my heart's core, even in my heart of hearts.
And in high verse I will eternise him,
Blazoning his beauty forth, his name concealing
To set the wide world wondering who he was,
And sharp debate shall drain the inky stands
Of sage and scholar labouring to divine
If worth it was of his, or wit of mine.

Ann Shakespeare.
William, I know I am a beast of burden,
Yet wiser asses have admonished seers.
This is the old song, sung in Charlcote arbour,
Where, ere I called thee mine, I often heard thee
Discoursing of one Plato with my lady,
And widely stared to hear such clever folks
Propound such flagrant rubbish, till I saw
They strove to cheat each other and themselves.
There is a lizard who draws aliment
From unsubstantial air.

Shakespeare.
What more of him?

Ann Shakespeare.
He holdeth not one colour for an hour:
So is ethereal rapture mutable.
The friend, thy spirit's other moiety
Thou vauntest in anticipation,
Shall fade, and leave a mistress in his place.

Shakespeare.
My heart hath room for him and Poetry,
Close on her ruddy cushion shall they sit,
Both warbling one song, both in one key,
Nor shall another guest inhabit it.

Ann Shakespeare.
Speaks Poetry thus of thy friend to thee?

Shakespeare.
Aye, woman, that she doth, and adds moreover
What will not win thy thanks. She doth affirm
I shall not find him here in Warwickshire,
And thus enforces me to go and search
Prodigious London. To deal plainly with thee,
Soon will my steps turn thither.

Ann Shakespeare.
Leaving me
Penurious toil and doles of grudging kindred!
Of this thou reckest nothing, but may'st yet
Think of thy children.

Shakespeare.
Thou dost touch me nearly.
Therein indeed I wander with a wound.
Yet better far that they should lack a sire
Than that the first sound sped to tender ears,
Which nought should taste but honeyed syllables,
Should be the hateful clash of parents' jarring.
So I withdraw me, and await occasion
Of reappearance like the sudden beam
Of heaven's light shed around them. Think not, Anna,
I do abandon thee. The tie of Love
Is ruptured, rather say 'twas never knit;
The tie of duty holds. First to myself
And general mankind. If here I loiter
Until my nature, like the dyer's hand
Subdued to that wherein it operates,
Hath caught the trick of chiding; do I weakly
Wrangle away my precious moments, suffer
The spiritual shapes and essences
That else would mingle with my dreams, and foster
My wakeful studies, to be scared from me,
Die I not as the fool? And how wert thou
The better? Be assured, if gain I gather
Diving in London's ocean, thou shalt share it.

Ann Shakespeare.
When see I thee again?

Shakespeare.
What time my winnings
Suffice to buy me the best house in Stratford;
With all desirable appendages
Of gardens and commodious outbuildings.

Ann Shakespeare.
Thou'rt mad. What fairy's wand or wizard's spell
Will make this moonshine gold?

Shakespeare.
Thyself shall do
With Wit's alliance, cradled now but crescive.
Hate oft discharges offices of love,
And our bad neighbours make us early risers.
The rattle and the rasp of thy shrill tongue,
Thy waspishness and indocility
Have lent me matter for a merry jape,
Wherewith I look to split the groundlings' sides,
Nor much grieve the judicious. This shall pave
My reputation's road.

Ann Shakespeare.
How runs its title?

Shakespeare.
The Taming of a Shrew.

Ann Shakespeare.
Aroint thee, villain!
What! barbarous unmanly reprobate,
Rogue, rascal, viper, vagabond, wretch, base
Slubberdegullion!

Shakespeare.
Never did I hear
Such gallant chiding.

Ann Shakespeare.
Would'st thou make thy wife,
Defamed already for a scold in Stratford,
Scoff of the town's licentious theatre?

Shakespeare.
Not all deep-bosomed earth's wide fruitfulness
Bought me to traffic with my private wrongs,
And stand my sorrow's showman. Every part
May Shakespeare represent, except his own.
Yet if he hold the mirror up to Nature,
Needs must it image somewhat of himself,
And those who crossed his path to bless or ban.
I studied in thy soul the shrewish temper,
But have not painted thee in painting it.
And further, I have fashioned in my quean
No English daw, but jay of Attica.
And, for thy full assurance, I have feigned her
Contrite and well-conditioned at the last,
Which were not easily believed of thee.

Ann Shakespeare.
I credit thee no whit. O I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes! and tear out thine,
But that thou art too tall. But wait an instant,
I will return with that shall make us even.

[Rushes into the house. Shakespeare takes the crossbows from the hollow of a tree and exit. Diana extinguishes the Moon. Re-enter Ann Shakespeare, carrying a red-hot iron.
Ann Shakespeare.
He's gone, and all is darkness. William! William!
Come back unto my arms, 'tis all forgotten.
He will not come again, he's wisely cautious.
Yet scatheless should he be, my heart is melting,
My wrath cools with the iron in my hand.
[Throws it away.
I marvel not he thinks that I have wronged him,
And yet I am, I trust, a pious woman,
Whom grief at his unbridled levities
And seeming genial-venial faults, beguiled,
With full approof and warranty of conscience,
To deem that I trepanned him for his good.
But easier far to capture than to cage
This winged elf, this wight of quicksilver,
Not by thee, Anna, to be stayed or moulded,
Unless at disadvantage he be caught.
Matter it were for laud and thankfulness
If he did break his leg, or anything
Short of his neck, thus of discourse of reason
Made auditor. O that I had him fast,
With six comedians or more, his tribe,
To use my lawful tongue! With holy prayers
And wholesome syrups, drugs, and catapotions,
Soon would I make a formal man of him.
But strong is he as packhorse, sound as roach.
O better had I tended apes in hell!
O wit too wily! O cards played too well!

[Exit.