Shakespeare. Can she play Juliet, man? Can she play Juliet? I think she can. Kit?
Marlowe. Ay?
Shakespeare. Oh, is there peace Anywhere, Kit, in any, any world?
Marlowe. What is it, peace?
Shakespeare. It passeth understanding. They round the sermon off on Sunday with it, Laugh in their sleeves and send us parching home. This is a dew that dries ere Monday comes, And oh, the heat of the seven days!
Marlowe. I like it! The smell of dust, the shouting, and the glare Of crowded noon in cities, and such nights As this night, crowning labour. What is—peace?
Stage Hand [entering]. Sir, sir, sir, will you come down, sir, says Mr. Henslowe. The end’s near and the house half mad. We’ve not seen a night like this since—since your night, sir! Your first night, sir, your roaring Tamburlaine night! Never anything like it and I’ve seen many. Will you come, sirs?
Shakespeare. You go, Marlowe!
Stage Hand. There’s nothing to fear, sir! It runs like clockwork. The lady died well, sir! Lord, who’d think she was a woman! There, there, it breaks out. Listen to ’em! Come, sir, come, come!
Marlowe. We’ll come! We’ll come!