Marlowe. Ay, that putting your hand to the plough you look back. Would I comb out my conscience daily as a woman combs out her hair? I do what I choose, though it damn me! Blame you? The round world has not such another Mary—or so, had I your eyes, I should hold. For this prize, if I loved her, I would pay away all I had.
Shakespeare. Honour, Kit?
Marlowe. Honour, Will!
Shakespeare. Faith and conscience and an only son?
Marlowe. It’s my own life. What are children to me?
Shakespeare. Well, I have paid.
Marlowe. But you grudge—you grudge! Look at you! If you go to her with those eyes it’s little wonder that she tires of you.
Shakespeare. Tires? Who says that she tires? Who says it?
Marlowe. Not I, old Will! Not I! Why, Shakespeare?
Shakespeare [shaken]. I can’t sleep, Kit! has come to me? I think I go mad. [He starts.] Was that the I can’t write. What boy on the stairs? I sent him to her. I wrote. I have waited her will long enough. She shall see me to-night. I’ll know what it means. She plays with me, Kit. Are you going?