That ink was the Dark Lady who brought William Shakespeare lasting glory is a theory. As he sat in a snowed-in house one January, commissions for unfinished plays on his darkening conscience, was he moved to declare undying (or even dying) worship for this black, serpentine and fickle liquid? He had first loves and last loves, but was the Dark Lady the print on his page, the ink in his well? In truth, he seems indifferent to being published at all, as if the world and theories could end tonight. Deadlines, deadlines, so little time! But still, who was she?