Elizabeth. For me? But you heard?
Mary. Something of the talk, Madam!
Elizabeth. You go to all the plays, do you not? Which is the coming man, Mary, Shakespeare or Marlowe.
Mary. If you ask me, Madam, I’m all for the cobbler’s son.
Henslowe. Mistress Fitton should give us a sound reason if she have it, but she has none.
Mary. Only that I don’t know Mr. Marlowe, and I know my little Shakespeare by heart. I’m an Athenian—I’m always asking for new tunes.
Elizabeth. Which is Shakespeare? The youngster like a smoking lamp, all aflare?
Mary. No, Madam! That’s Marlowe. Shakespeare’s a lesser man.
Henslowe. A lesser man? Marlowe the lamp, say you? He’s conflagration, he’s “Armada!” flashed From Kent to Cornwall! But this lesser man, He’s the far world the beacons can out flare One little hour, but, when their flame dies down, High o’er the embers in the deep of night Behold the star!
Elizabeth. I forget if ever I saw him.