SHAKESPEARE. Oh, to be you! To read the faces and to write the dreams, To hear the voices and record the songs, To grave upon the metal of my mind All great men, lordlier than they know themselves, And fowler-like to fling my net o’er London, And some let fly, and clip the wings of some Fit for my notes; till one fine day I catch The Governess of England as she goes To solemn service with her gentlemen: (What thoughts behind the mask, beneath the crown?) Queen! The crowd’s eyes are yours, but not my eyes! Queen! To my piping you shall unawares Strut on my stage for me! You laugh? I swear I’ll make that thrice-wrapped, politic, vain heart My horn-book (as you all are) whence I’ll learn How Julius frowned, and Elinor rode her way Rough-shod, and Egypt met ill-news. I’ll do it, Though I hold horses in the streets for hire, Once I am come to London. HENSLOWE. Come with us And there’s no holding horses! Part and pay Are ready, and we start to-night. SHAKESPEARE. I cannot. I’m Whittington at cross-roads, but the bells Ring “Turn again to Stratford!” not to London. HENSLOWE. Well--as you choose! SHAKESPEARE. As I choose? _I! I_ choose? I’m married to a woman near her time That needs me! Choose? I am not twenty, sir! What devil sped you here to bid me choose? I knew a boy went wandering in a wood, Drunken with common dew and beauty-mad And moonstruck. Then there came a nightshade witch, Locked hands with him, small hands, hot hands, down drew him, Sighing--“Love me, love me!” as a ring-dove sighs, (How white a woman is, under the moon!) She was scarce human. Yet he took her home, And now she’s turned in the gross light of day To a haggard scold, and he handfasted sits Breaking his heart--and yet the spell constrains him. This is not I, not I, for I am bound To a good wife and true, that loves me; but-- I tell you I could write of such a man, And make you laugh and weep at such a man, For your own manhood’s sake, so bound, so bound. HENSLOWE. Laugh? Weep? No, I’d be a friend to such a man! Go to him now and tell him from me--or no! Go rather to this wife of his that loves him well, you say--? SHAKESPEARE. Too well!