[With deprecating gesture.] Tell me everything. Are there any new poets, new theatres? Do the Puritans disturb you? Here in my house my daughter puts preachers to lodge as soon as I go away for a week or so: to purge the air, I suppose, of my sinful presence.
Jonson:
There’s no great change. Pembroke is in greater favour than ever; he’s Lord Chamberlain now, and sends me money each year to buy books.
Shakespeare:
Alms to escape oblivion.
[Leans back wearily and closes eyes as daughter re-enters room.]
Drayton:
[To the daughter in a whisper.] He’s not dangerously ill, is he?
Judith Shakespeare:
[Tartly.] Doctor Hall says father is very ill.