I have poor unhappy brains for drinking: one cup, you know, was always too much for me.
Drayton:
It must have been the talk, Shakespeare; you drank nothing. But I never dreamt you were so weak; you used to seem strong enough.
Shakespeare:
I was never strong, I think. Even as a youth any excitement robbed me of sleep and made me fanciful, and of late years I have only been well when very quiet—when the thin flame is lanterned from every breath [with a gesture]. But what matters it? If the candle goes out there’s an end.
Jonson:
I blame myself for having overtired you. But you talked wonderfully—as no one ever talked before, I think, and I could not pull you up; now I blame myself.
Shakespeare:
There’s no blame possible. It was a great night; one of the greatest nights of my life. But give me more news: I seem to have heard nothing; are the boy-players still followed?
Drayton: