Tut, what cares he for modest close-couch’d terms,
Cleanly to gird our looser libertines?
Give him plain naked words stript from their shirts,
That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine.
Ing. Christopher Marlowe—
Jud. Marlowe was happy in his buskin’d Muse;
Alas! unhappy in his life and end.
Pity it is that wit so ill should dwell,
Wit lent from heaven, but vices sent from hell.
Ing. Our theatre hath lost, Pluto hath got