Elizabeth. Yes, make us laugh and you may pick all pockets! He helped you to pick mine.
Henslowe. So far good. But he aims no higher. Yet what he could do if he would! I have a sort of love of him, Madam. I found him: I taught him: I have daughters enough but no son. I have wrestled with him like Jacob at Peniel, but when I think to conquer he tickles my rib and I laugh. That’s his weapon, Madam! With his laughter he locks the door of his heart against every man.
Elizabeth. And every woman?
Henslowe. They say—no, Madam!
Elizabeth. Then we must find her.
Henslowe [with a glance at Mary Fitton]. They say she is found already. But a court lady—and a player! It’s folly, Madam! Now Marlowe would shrug his shoulder and go elsewhere; but Shakespeare—there is about him in little and great a certain dogged and damnable constancy that wrecks all. If he cannot have the moon for his supper, he will starve, Madam, whatever an old fool says to him.
Elizabeth. Then, Henslowe, we must serve him up the moon. Mary!
Mary [rising and coming down to them]. Madam?
Elizabeth. Could you hear us?
Mary. I was playing the new song that the Earl set for you.