Shakespeare. You talk! You talk! You talk! What do you know of her?
Marlowe. Or you, old Will?
Shakespeare. I dream her.
Marlowe. Well, pleasant dreams!
Shakespeare. No more. I’m black awake.
Marlowe. What’s wrong? Ill news?
Shakespeare. From Stratford. Yes, yes, yes, Kit! And it must come now, just now, after ten dumb years!
Marlowe. Stratford? Whew! I’d forgotten your nettle-bed. What does she want of you?
Shakespeare. Hark! Mary’s on.
Marlowe. It’s a voice like the drip of a honey-comb.