Marlowe. Who?
Mary. The cool nymph under Tiber stairs—what’s her name?—Egeria. Am I your Egeria, Marlowe?
Marlowe. Something less slippery.
Mary. Oh, she was fun to play—first to please the Queen and then to please myself. For I was caught, you know. It’s something to be hung among the stars, something to say—“I was his Juliet!”
Marlowe. What, you—you Comedy-Kate?
Mary. Why, I’m a woman! that is—fifty women! While he played Romeo to my Juliet I could be anything he chose. O Kit! I sucked his great soul out. You never lit the blaze I was for half an hour: then—out I went!
Marlowe. He stoops o’er the embers yet.
Mary. But ashes fanned Fly from their centre, lighter than a kiss, And settle—where they please! [She kisses him.] D’you love me?
Marlowe. More than I wish.
Mary. Would you be cured?