HENSLOWE. Nothing. SHAKESPEARE. Not like her. HENSLOWE. But her eyes spoke, as I came By way of London, Juliet, ‘The Rose,’ And the Queen’s great favour (“And why not?” they said) Again to silence; so, as I turned to go I asked her--“Any greeting?” Then she said, Lifting her chin as if she sped her words Far, far, like pigeons flung upon the air, And soft her voice as bird-wings--then she said, “Tell him the woods are green at Shottery, Fuller of flowers than any wood in the world.” “What else?” said I. She said--“The wind still blows Fresh between park and river. Tell him that!” Said I--“No message, letter?” Then she said, Twisting her hands--“Tell him the days are long. Tell him--” and suddenly ceased. Then, with good-bye Pleasantly spoken, and another look At some wraith standing by me, not at me, Went back into the house and shut the door. SHAKESPEARE. Ay, shut the door, Henslowe; for had she been this she Ten years ago and I this other I-- Well, I have friends to love! Heard Marlowe’s news? He’s three-part through Leander! Oh, this Marlowe! I mine for coal but he digs diamonds. HENSLOWE. Yet fill your scuttle lest the world grow chill! Is the new play done? SHAKESPEARE. No. HENSLOWE. Much written? SHAKESPEARE. Not a line. HENSLOWE. Are you mad? We’re contracted. What shall I say to the Queen? SHAKESPEARE. What you please. HENSLOWE. Are you well? SHAKESPEARE. Well enough. HENSLOWE. Ill enough, I think! SHAKESPEARE. Write your own plays--bid Marlowe, any man That writes as nettles grow or rain comes down! I am not born to it. I write not so. Romeo and Juliet--I am dead of them! The pay’s too small, good clappers! These ghosts need blood To make ’em plump and lively and they know it, And seek their altar. Threads and floating wisps Of being, how they fasten like a cloud Of gnats upon me, not to be shoo’d off Unsatisfied--and they drink deep, drink deep; For like a pelican these motes I feed, And with old griefs’ remembrance and old joys’ Sharper remembrance daily scourge myself, And still they crowd to suck my scars and live. HENSLOWE. Now, now, now--do I ask another ‘Juliet’ of you? God forbid! A fine play, your ‘Juliet,’ but-- SHAKESPEARE. Now come the “buts.”