The Man [with a glass]. Spirits to spirit, young sir! Have a drink!
Mary. I should choke, sir! We drink nectar in my country.
The Man. Where’s that, ghost?
Mary. Oh, somewhere on the soft side of heaven where the poppies grow.
The Man. He swore you were dead and buried.
Mary. And so I was. But there’s a witch in London so sighs for him and so cries for him, that in the end she whistled me out of my gravity and sent me here to fetch him home to her.
The Man. Her name, transparency, her name?
Mary. Why, sir, I rode in such haste that my memory could not keep up with me. It’ll not be here this half hour.
Marlowe. Landlord, pour ale for a dozen, and these friends will drink to her, name or no name—in the next room.
The Man. Kit, you’re a man of tact! I’m a man of tact. We’re all men of tact!