Marlowe [singing]. If Luck and I should meet I’ll catch her to me crying, ‘To trip with you were sweet, Have done with your denying!’ Hey, lass! Ho, lass! Heel and toe, lass! Who’ll have a dance with me? All Together. Hey, Luck! Ho, Luck! Ne’er say no, Luck! I’ll have a dance with thee!
A Man [hammering the table]. Again! Again!
Landlord [at the door]. Sir, sir, there’s without a young gentleman hot with riding—
Marlowe. Does the hot young gentleman give no name?
Landlord. Why yes, sir, Archer, Francis Archer! He said you would know him.
Marlowe. I knew an Archer, but he died in Flanders.
Landlord. He may well come from Flanders, sir, for he’s muddy.
Marlowe. Are Flanders’ graves so shallow? Tell him if he’s alive I don’t know him, and if he’s dead I won’t know him, and so either way let him go where he belongs.
The Landlord goes out.
The Man. What, Kit! send him to hell with a dry throat?