Marlowe. They say many things. They say we’re rivals, Will—that I shall end by having you hissed.
Shakespeare. Let them say! But have you seen Mary? When did you last see Mary?
Marlowe. I forget. Saturday.
Shakespeare. Did you speak of me, Kit? Kit, does she speak of me?
Marlowe. If you must have it—seldom. New songs, new books, new music—of plays and players and the Queen’s tantrums—not of you.
Shakespeare. I have not seen her three days.
Marlowe. Why, go then and see her!
Shakespeare. She has company. She is waiting on the Queen. She gives me a smile and a white cool finger-tip, and—“Farewell, Mr. Shakespeare!” Yet a month ago, ay and less than a month—! Did you give her my message? What did she say?
Marlowe. She laughed and says you dream. She never liked you better.
Shakespeare. Did she say that?