Mary. Madam, it was your errand. For this Shakespeare, This quill you thrust on me to sharpen up, Jealous of Marlowe, though he had no cause (What! must I live his nun, his stay-at-home? Your servant and a lady of the court!), Sent me a letter—
Elizabeth. Let me read!
Mary. I tore it! —so inked in threat that I post-haste for Deptford—
Elizabeth. Ill judged!
Mary. I know! I followed my first fear. —rode to warn Marlowe. Shakespeare following, Spying upon us, spying upon us, Madam! Found us in counsel. Then, with a hail of words That Marlowe would not bear, with “stale” and “harlot,” He beat me down, till Marlowe flung ’em back; Then like two dogs they struggled. Marlowe fell.
Elizabeth. Struck down?
Mary. Struck down, but blindly, not to kill— I will not think to kill—and as he fell His own knife caught him, here.
Elizabeth. What did you then?
Mary. I, Madam?
Elizabeth. You, Madam? Did you fold your hands And watch this business as you’d watch a play, And clap them on? Or, as a short month since You played a part I think, did you strike in And play a part? Why did you call for help?