Marlowe. Not possible.
Mary [singing]. Go to church, sweetheart, A flower in your coat! Your wedding bells shall prove The death of love! The death of love! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The death of love! Or so Will says.
Marlowe. He should know.
Mary. What’s that?
Marlowe. Nothing.
Mary. He’s married?
Marlowe. I do not tell you so.
Mary. Married! He shall pay me. Married! I guessed it—but he shall pay me. A country girl?
Marlowe. If you must know! He has not seen her these ten years. She sent for him the night of ‘Juliet.’
Mary. Why now all’s plain. So she’s the canker that hath drooped our rose! If I had loved him—I do not love him, Marlowe— This would have fanned a flame. Well, we’re all cheats! But now I cheat with better conscience. Married! Lord, I could laugh! He must not know I know it.