Marlowe. She says you cool to her, not she to you.
Shakespeare. Did she say that?
Marlowe. Swore it, with tears in her eyes.
Shakespeare. Is it so? I wish it were so. Well, you’re my good friend, Marlowe!
Marlowe. Oh, leave that!
Shakespeare. Kit, do you blame me so much?
Marlowe. Why should I blame you?
Shakespeare. That I’m here and not in Warwickshire.
Marlowe. I throw no stones. Why? Have you heard aught?
Shakespeare. No, nor dared ask—nor dared ask, Marlowe. The boy’s dead. I know it. But I will not hear it. Marlowe, Marlowe, Marlowe, do you judge me?