Will Shakespeare: An Invention in Four Acts. Clemence Dane
was angry too, My fault, all mine—but I was sick and faint And frightened, so I railed, because no word Matched with the strong need in me suddenly For gentlest looks and your beloved arms About this body changed and shaking so; But why I knew not. But my mother knew And told me.
Shakespeare. O wise mother!
Anne. Will, it’s true!
Shakespeare. Practice makes perfect, as we wrote at school!
Anne. I swear to you—
Shakespeare. As then you swore to me. Not twice, not twice, my girl!
Anne. O God, God Son! Pitiful God! If there be other lives, As I have heard him say, as his books say, In other bodies, for Your Mother’s sake And all she knows (God, ask her what she knows!) Let me not be a woman! Let me be Some twisting worm on a hook, or fish they catch And fling again to catch another year, Or otter trapped and broiled in the sun three days, Or lovely bird whose living wing men tear From its live body, or of Italy Some peasant’s drudge-horse whipped upon its eyes, Or let me as a heart-burst, screaming hare Be wrenched in two by slavering deaths for sport; But let me not again be cursed a woman Surrendered to the mercy of her man!
She sinks down in a crouching heap by the hearth. There has been a sound of many voices drawing nearer, and as she ceases speaking, the words of a song become clear.
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