Marlowe.
That's well said.
Jacconot.
Is it? So 'tis my gallants—a night-bird like yourselves, am I.
Marlowe.
Beast!—we know you.
Jacconot.
Your merry health, Master Kit Marlowe! I'll bring a loud pair of palms to cheer your soul the next time you strut in red paint with a wooden weapon at your thigh.
Marlowe.
Who sent for you, dorr-hawk?—go!