Shakespeare: We’ll do better trying something else, not so risky. Supper’s ready. Here it comes.
Jonson: Pour the ale, boy.
Marlowe: Hugger-mugger, my cage lost its bars. The bird of fear has flown ...hunger picked the lock.
That’s how I remember an evening at the Tavern, Raleigh in his finest, wearing green velvet cloak, red trousers, black boots, black hat, sword; Jonson, Marlowe and me in our snuffbox suits, wearing our swords because of recent street fracases.
The Tower of London...
A cracked stone stairway leads to an open door:
Inside, windowless, Raleigh sits at his prison desk,
with maps, letters, books around him.
He is writing; he coughs:
Frail, he seems to be listening: