Henley Street

December 24, 1615

Scene: Seash.o.r.e

Lord Thomas Was it yesterday?

Philo No-it was the day before-at night.

Thomas When...when was it?

Philo Speak lower...they'll overhear us!

Sssh!

Thomas I didn't bury her the day before. No man buries love at night, only hate.

You saw me carry her to her room-lay her down tenderly. You share the secrets of our lives...and now the secret of her death. 'Sblood, that is that remains for each of us, hide carefully, forgetting intrigue, forgetting Scotland...

But I can no longer write!

Snow beats on the windows and winter chills me, cold hands on my throat. Where are my faithful players? Where is Alleyn-speaking divinely? If I could talk to him I might be able to write again. If this storm did not batter this house so treacherously!

Green lozenges of light penetrate the oriel,

green drinking mugs,

green on table decanter,

Shakespeare and Jonson drinking.

Stratford streets in the late afternoon sun,

sounds of a carriage,

sounds of kids coming home from school.

Jonson quotes a line,

Shakespeare quotes a line.

Henley Street

January third, 1616

I

t does no good to rage at my impotence and yet I rage...come bird, come...come, heart, perform your art.

Yesterday, I was carried out of my private madness by Ben Jonson's visit: we drank and laughed, his thick cloak thrown off, his broad shoulders broader, voice kindly, eyes the eyes of one acting well-remembered lines, hands relaxed on his lap or gesturing easily.

"Now that the night begins with sable wings to overcloud the brightness of the sun, and that in darkness pleasures may be done...let us to the bower and pa.s.s a pleasant hour..."

He said those lines years ago, and that night Ellen came to me, and waited backstage, there, with the dusty props and dirt. Ah, her beauty: I saw it against the sticks and p.r.i.c.ks of make-believe! I felt its warmth. I asked her how she was but she wanted kisses, not civilities.