HENSLOWE. Flat? You should see Norfolk, where I was a boy. From sky to sky there’s no break in the levels but shock-head willows and reed tussocks where a singing bird may nest. But in which? Oh, for that you must sit unstirring in your boat, between still water and still sky, while the drips run off your blade until, a yard away, uprises the song. Then, flash! part the rushes--the nest is bare and the bird your own! Oh, I know the ways of the water birds! And so, hearing of a cygnet on the banks of Avon-- ANNE. Ah! HENSLOWE. You’re right, Madonna, the poetical vein runs dry. So I’ll end with a plain question--“Is not Thames broader than Avon?” SHAKESPEARE. Muddier-- HENSLOWE. But a magical water to hasten the moult, to wash white a young swan’s feathers. SHAKESPEARE. Or black, Mephisto! HENSLOWE. Black swans are rarest. I saw one when I was last in London. London’s a great city! Madonna, you should send your husband to market in London, and in a twelvemonth he’ll bring you home the world in his pocket as it might be a russet apple. ANNE. What should we do with the world, sir, here in Stratford? HENSLOWE. Why, seed it and sow it, and plant it in your garden, and it’ll grow into the tree of knowledge. ANNE [_turning away_]. My garden is planted already. HENSLOWE [_in a low voice_], The black swan seeks a mate, black swan. SHAKESPEARE. A woman? ANNE [_turning sharply_]. What did he say to you? HENSLOWE. Why, that a woman can make her fortune in London as well as a man. There’s one came lately to court, but sixteen and a mere knight’s daughter, without a penny piece, and you should see her now! The men at her feet-- ANNE. And the women--? HENSLOWE. Under her heel. ANNE. What does the Queen say? HENSLOWE. Winks and lets her be, A fashion out of fashion--gipsy-black Among the ladies with their bracken hair, (The Queen, you know, is red!) SHAKESPEARE. A vixen, eh? HENSLOWE. Treason, my son! ANNE. God made us anyway and coloured us! SHAKESPEARE. And is he less the artist if at will He strings a black pearl, hangs between the camps Of day and day the banner of His dark? Or that He leaves, when with His autumn breath He fans the bonfire of the woods, a pine Unkindled? HENSLOWE. True; and such a black is she Among the golden women.