Scene I.
Shakespeare’s lodging. It is the plain but well-arranged room of a man of fair means and fine taste. The walls are panelled: on them hang a couple of unframed engravings, a painting, tapestry, and a map of the known world. There is a four-post bed with a coverlet and hangings of needlework, and on the window-sill a pot of early summer flowers. There is a chair or two of oak and a table littered with papers. Shakespeare is sitting at it, a manuscript in his hand. On the arm of the chair lolls Marlowe, one arm flung round Shakespeare’s neck, reading over his shoulder.
Shakespeare. Man, how you’ve worked! A whole act to my ten lines! You dice all day and dance all night and yet—how do you do it?
Marlowe. Like it?
Shakespeare. Like it? What a word for a word-master! Consider, Kit! When the sun rises like a battle song over the sea: when the wind’s feet visibly race along the tree-tops of a ten-mile wood: when they shout “Amen!” in the Abbey, praying for the Queen on Armada Day: when the sky is a brass gong and the rain steel rods, and across all suddenly arch the seven colours of the promise—do I like these wonders when I stammer and weep, and know that God lives? Like, Marlowe!
Marlowe. Yes, yes, old Will! But do you like the new act?
Shakespeare. I like it, Kit!
[They look at each other and laugh].
Marlowe. And now for your scene, ere I go.
Shakespeare. My scene! I give you what I’ve done. Finish it alone, Kit, and take what it brings! I’m sucked dry.