Mary. What’s wrong?
Henslowe. Everything! Juliet! The clumsy beasts! They let him fall from the bier: they let him fall on his arm! Now he’s moaning and wincing and swears he can’t go on, though he has but to speak his death scene. I’ve bid them cut the afterwards.
Marlowe. Broken?
Henslowe. I fear so.
Mary. Let it be broken! Say he must go on! What? Spoil the play? These baby-men!
Henslowe. He will not.
Marlowe. The understudy?
Henslowe. Playing Paris. Where’s Shakespeare? What’s to be done? The play’s spoiled.
Marlowe. He’ll break his heart.
Mary. He shall not break his heart! This is our play! Back to your Juliet-boy, Strip off his wear and never heed his arm! Bid them play on and bring me Juliet’s robes! I’ll put them on and put on Juliet too. Quick, Henslowe!