Mary. Told?
Elizabeth. Why are you not in black, Mary?
Mary. I, Madam?
Elizabeth. Marlowe is dead.
Mary. I grieve to hear it.
Elizabeth. When did you hear?
Mary. Why, Madam, now—you tell me!
Elizabeth. Then I tell you wrong. He is alive and has told all.
Mary. Alive? They lie to you, Madam! What has he told? Who says it?
Elizabeth. You, Mary Fitton! For by your dark-ringed eyes Your dreaming service and those blind hands of yours Seeking a hold, I think you saw him die, Ere you passed Henslowe in the dark, crying “Hurry!”