MARY. Maybe! SHAKESPEARE. My mind’s not one room stored, but many, A house of windows that o’erlook far gardens, The hanging gardens of more Babylons Than there are bees in a linden tree in June. I’m the king-prisoner in his capital, Ruling strange peoples of a world unknown, Yet there come envoys from the untravelled lands That fill my corridors with miracles As it were tribute, secretly, by night; And I wake in the dawn like Solomon, To stare at peacocks, apes and ivory, And a closed door. And all these stores I give you for your own, You shall be mistress of my fairy-lands, I’ll ride you round the world on the back of a dream, I’ll give you all the stars that ever danced In the sea o’ nights, If you will come into my mind with me, If you will learn me--know me. MARY. I do know you. You are the quizzical Mr. Shakespeare of the ‘Rose,’ who never means a word he says. I’ve heard of you. All trades hate you because you are not of their union, and yet know the tricks of each trade; but your own trade loves you, because you are content with a crook in the lower branches when you might be top of the tree. You write comedies, all wit and no wisdom, like a flower-bed raked but not dug; but the high stuff of the others, their tragedies and lamentable ends, these you will not essay. Why not, Mr. Shakespeare of the fairy-lands? SHAKESPEARE. Queen Wasp, I do not know. MARY. King Drone, then I will tell you. You are the little boy at Christmas who would not play snap-dragon till the flames died down, and so was left at the end with a cold raisin in an empty dish. That’s you, that’s you, with the careful fingers and no good word in your plays for any woman. Run home, run home, there’s no more to you! SHAKESPEARE. D’you think so? MARY. I think that I think so. SHAKESPEARE. I’ll show you. MARY. What will you show me, Will? SHAKESPEARE. Fairyland, and you and me in it. Will you believe in me then? MARY. Not I, not I! I’m a woman of this world. Give me flesh and blood, not gossamer, Honey and heart-ache, and a lovers’ moon. SHAKESPEARE. I read of lovers once in Italy-- She was like you, such eyes of night, such hair. God took a week to make his world, but these In four short days made heaven to burn on earth Like a great torch; and when they died-- MARY. They died?