Ho, boys! Hey, boys! Come this way, boys! Who’ll have a drink with me?
The door closes on them.
Mary. Well, did you ever see a better boy? My hair was the only trouble.
Marlowe. Madcap! What does this mean?
Mary. What I said! [singing]. Moth, where are you flown? To burn in a flame! Moth, I lie alone— You’ve not been near me these four days.
Marlowe. Uneasy days—I could not.
Mary. Are you burned, moth? Are the poor wings a-frizzle?
Marlowe. Not mine, dear candle, but a king of moths, But a great hawk-moth, velvet as the night He beats with twilight wings, he, he is singed, Fallen to earth and pitiful.
Mary. Oh, Shakespeare! My dear, I’ve run away because I hate The smell of burning.
He was to come to me to-night to tell me his tragedies and his comedies and—oh, I yawn! And I played her so well too at the first—