Page 83 of The Two Wills

One night, before we were to engage in sport, I asked him, “When you first bedded your wife, or when you and Rose first coupled, did it feel the same as when you and I first lay together?”

“Why are you asking this now, my love?” He seemed a little peeved at first, since he had been aroused by our kissing, and was in the midst of unbuckling. He then looked down at me (for I was on my knees), smiled thoughtfully, and said, “No story of love is exactly alike. My first encounter with Anne involved no love at all, since I was too young and mostly would have rutted with a tree stump given the chance. Our love came later, after friendship was planted. With Rose, there was the most unspeakable attraction of the body, the sort of fire created by alchemists or witches to bring a man down. Though I also admired her wit greatly. Yet, I was never sure it was truly love … more uncontrollable lust. If she and I had stayed together longer, I think a gentler love would’ve come.”

Hearing of his passion for Rose made me most jealous. Did I not make him mad with lust? Was his attraction to me less? I shook the thought from my mind.

“And so, being together now longer than you were with your wife in watercolors, how would you compare our love?” I asked, standing up and undoing my own britches. “I mean if your loves were individual plays or poems, which would you say was the greatest?”

“God’s teeth! Don’t be such a coxcomb, Hughes. I’ve told you there is not one love greater than another, if they all be true love. All true love is great.” He then pulled his pillicock from his pants, and I saw that my worried questions, rather than dulling its ardor, had aroused it. “Now, my most curious young sir, play my trumpet so our performance can begin.”

Another worry that would not sit quiet in my head was that the Poet once claimed he would lose his inspiration with the physical actualization of our love. But the opposite seemed true. In the year since our passion blossomed, he, in fact, seemed even more fertile. He showed the sharers three new plays he had completed and let me look at several more sonnets he had written for me. All were stained with the history of our sometimes tormented, sometimes blissful, and always unmentionable love. The characters I inspired him to write during that period included Calpurnia in The Tragedy of Julius Cesar, Kate in The Taming of the Shrew, and Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—one of my favorite roles.

So, at the year’s anniversary of our love’s beginning, I asked the Poet, “Do you think we will be together forever? Because I want us to. I love you more now than ever before.”

In his usual way, he did not respond the way I wanted but merely smiled in that mysterious way of his and then kissed me. A day later I found this sonnet lying on our bed:

What’s in the brain that ink may character

Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?

What’s new to speak, what now to register,

That may express my love or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,

I must each day say o’er the very same,

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love’s fresh case

Weighs not the dust and injury of age,

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page,

Finding the first conceit of love there bred,

Where time and outward form would show it dead.

It was right there, again, in ink: You are mine, I am yours. After that, I no longer questioned my position in his heart; instead, I allowed myself to feel contented with what we were, and went about my day joyously, knowing our love, though secret, was strong. Of course, life’s happiness cannot be built on the lover and the beloved alone. I was also surrounded by my best friends, Augustine, Alex, and most of all Little Goat. He and I lived together very nicely in the housing provided. He was the only one to whom I told everything. He was happy for the Poet and me, though I could tell he had some reservations, being that the Poet’s reputation was not the most honorable when it came to having just one love. (Should the Poet have lain with others in a nonromantic way, I believe I would have been accepting, though I saw no evidence.) Mostly Little Goat was glad for me, and we had a most jolly time together. We played all our best roles against each other; me in the leading female role with Burbage as love interest and Little Goat playing my younger or older confidant. If his young lady’s role demanded a paramour, the young man would always be played by the now dashing Alex—which seemed to please them both and made me wonder, now that Little Goat was growing into a youth, whether he and Alex might one day find each other as the Poet and I had.

“What do you think of Alex?” I asked Little Goat one night after I returned from the Poet’s.

“He’s alright,” Little Goat said. “He’s a good actor, and does not stand upstage from me, and is generous with sharing the candlelight, unlike Beeston and Burbage.”

“God’s teeth, you dunce! I mean do you … like him? Would you ever kiss Alex and mean it? I know you’ve always been smitten with him.”

It was dark but by Little Goat’s silence, I knew he was probably blushing.

After a long moment, he whispered, “He’s good looking, obviously. And sometimes, if we must fake a kiss on stage, I keep hoping he forgets to place his hand over his mouth. But beshrew thee! Why do you ask me? I’m not even sure Alex is built like us.”

I laughed. “Of course he is, ninny. He confessed to me, three years ago. I’m sure he likes you. You should say something.”

Little Goat said nothing more that night, and neither did Alex when I hinted at Little Goat’s affection the next day. He merely brushed me off and claimed Little Goat was far too young for his taste. Alas, nothing seemed to change at how they behaved around each other. Still, it humored me to speculate and prod.