His words, Dekker, are like his dress: too choice for ease, too rich for service: but he’s of great place, and friend to Essex.
Fletcher:
[To Southampton.] The end’s weak, and the merchant too much the saint.
Dekker:
Saints are always tiresome unless they’re martyred.
Southampton:
And detractors, unless they’re witty.
Lacy:
[Reproachfully.] A cannon-ball as a retort! Fie, fie, my lord Southampton. A little salve of soft disdain obliterates the sting, and no one shoots at midges.
[Enter Shakespeare, who takes a seat apart.]