Henslowe. Madam, if ever you saw him, you would not forget— A small, a proud head, like an Arab Christ, And noble, madman’s fingers, never still— The face still though, mouth hid, the nostril wide, And eyes like voices calling, shrill and sad, Borne on hot winds from fairyland or hell; Yet round the heavy lids a score of lines All criss-cross crinkle like a score of laughs That he has scribbled hastily down himself With his quick fingers. No, not tall—
Elizabeth. But a man!
Mary. Like other men.
Elizabeth. Ah?
Mary. It was easy.
Elizabeth. Tell!
Mary. He came like a boy to apples. Marlowe now—
Elizabeth. More than a man, less than a man, but not As yet a man then? Well, I’ll see your Shakespeare: Marlowe—some other time.
Henslowe. I’ll fetch him to you. Henslowe goes out. Elizabeth. To you, Mary—to you!
Mary. O Madam, spare me! It’s a stiff instrument and once, I think, has been ill-tuned.