A babel, Herbert, as usual. Not enough clowning, Chettle says, and the general echo him.
Herbert:
The dull clods have no eyes for beauty, no ears for poetry. I had to go before the end; you forgive me? The play was splendid, one line a miracle—“How all the other passions fleet to air”—[putting his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder]—but now I must be off to Court to persuade the old harpy to “order” the performance of the “Merry Wives.” But you’re not listening.
Shakespeare:
Thinking. You might do something else for me at Court.
Herbert:
Anything, at Court or in Hades, ’tis only another name for the same place.
Shakespeare:
There was here but now a Maid-of-Honour, Mistress Mary Fitton; do you know her?
Herbert: