Jonson:
[Holds out his hand.] Oh, I am sorry, too sorry. Our visit has done you harm.
Shakespeare:
No need for grief. Our life is but a breath— A rack of smoke that at the topmost height Dislimns and fades away.
Jonson:
Not so, dear friend: the work remains. And of all men you should be content, for your work has already put you among the immortals.
Shakespeare:
We are immortal only when we die;
It is the dead who steer the living—
Judith Shakespeare: