Scene III.
Shakespeare:
[While Shakespeare stands at gaze Ben Jonson enters.] It is the end, I think—the end. [Turns to the room.] What weak curs we are, Ben: I beg her to come soon; yet I wish she were dead!
Jonson:
A proud patch, that; she’s not likely to die soon: the devil takes care of his own.
Shakespeare:
She’s proud, indeed; but why do you miscall her?
Jonson:
We were there in the yard as she passed, three or four of us: the yard was dirty: she picked up her clothes and walked past us as if we were posts. Shapely legs she’s got.
Shakespeare: