The man goes out.
Shakespeare. Not I! Oh, if you love me, Marlowe, swear I’m ill, gone away, dead, what you please, but keep them away! I can stand no more.
Marlowe. It’s as she said—mad—mad—to fling your luck away.
Shakespeare. A frost has touched me, Marlowe, my fruit’s black. Help me now! Go, go! Say I’m gone, as I shall be when I’ve seen Mary—
Marlowe. A back stairs? Now I understand.
Shakespeare. Oh, stop your laughter! I’m to leave London in half an hour.
Marlowe. Earnest? For long?
Shakespeare. Little or long, what matter? I’ve missed the moment. Who has his moment twice?
Marlowe. Shall you tell her why you go?
Shakespeare. Mary? God forbid!