HENSLOWE. Why, yes and no! I’m from Spain at the moment--I have castles there; but my bed-sitting room (a green room, Madonna) is in Blackfriars. As to my means, for I see your eye on my travel stains, I have a bank account, also in Spain, a box-office, and the best of references. The world and his wife employ me, the Queen comes to see me, and all the men of genius run to be my servants. But as to who I am--O Madonna, who am I not? I’ve played every card in the pack, beginning as the least in the company, the mere unit, the innocent ace, running up my number with each change of hand to Jack, Queen, King, and so to myself again, the same mere One, but grown to my hopes. For Queen may blow kisses, King of Hearts command all hands at court, but Ace in his shirt-sleeves is manager and trumps them off the board at will. You may learn from this Ace; for I think, sir, you will end as he does, the master of your suit. ANNE. A fortune-teller too! HENSLOWE. Will you cross my palm with a sixpence, Madonna? ANNE. With nothing. HENSLOWE. Beware lest I tell you for nothing that you--fear your fortune! SHAKESPEARE [_spreading his hand_]. Is mine worth fearing? HENSLOWE. Here’s an actor’s hand, and a bad one. You’ll lose your words, King o’ Hearts. Your great scenes will break down. SHAKESPEARE. Then I’ll be ’prenticed direct to the Ace. HENSLOWE. Too fast. You must come to cues like the rest of us, and play out your part, before you can be God Almighty in the wings--as God himself found out when the world was youngish. ANNE. We’re plain people, sir, and my husband works his farm. HENSLOWE. And sings songs? I’ve been trying out a new play in the provinces before we risk London and Gloriana-- ANNE. What! the Queen! the Queen? HENSLOWE. Oh, she keeps her eye on poor players as well as on Burleigh and the fleet. _There’s_ God Almighty in the wings if you like! But as I say-- Whatever barn we storm, here in the west, We’re marching to the echo of new songs, Jigged out in taverns, trolled along the street, Loosed under sweetheart windows, whistled and sighed Wherever a farmer’s boy in Lover’s Lane Shifts from the right foot to the left and waits-- “Where did you hear it?” say I, beating time: And always comes the answer--“Stratford way!” A green parish, Stratford! SHAKESPEARE. Too flat, though I love it. Give me hills to climb!