[_While speaking he puts his arm round her, kisses her and draws her towards entrance_, C. _There he takes cloaks; wraps her in one and puts the other on. They go. The stage darkens. A servant comes in, takes up something and goes away. The stage darkens; stars appear. Midnight sounds from some neighbouring clock. On the first stroke Shakespeare enters from_ L., _moves to trysting-place and waits. No one comes. In the distance faintly he hears his own song growing clearer as if the singer were passing by: “I am my own fever, my own fever and pain.” He moves about restlessly while the song dies away._] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ACT III ------------------------------------------------------------------------ SCENE I. _In the Mitre Tavern._ HOST: [_Wiping the table._] I can trust no more. I’m a poor man, Master Chettle. CHETTLE: [_Aside._] Poor in flesh and poorer in spirit. [_Aloud._] Go to, man, I don’t ask you for trust. From now on the drink of the day shall be paid in the day. What can you want more? HOST: Ay, that were good enough if—— CHETTLE: Oh! Your “if” ’s a scurvy coward, a water-drinker dripping with doubts; no host for a generous tavern. Hark ye, ye don’t send in the reckoning before the meal; but an hour after. Make the hour three and ye shall have your money. Send me the drawer, man, and before night ye shall be paid. Was ever such an unbelieving sinner! HOST: Sinner, I may be, Master Chettle; but unbelieving, no. I have trusted you these ten years, Master Chettle, and the reckoning grows; every year it grows. That’s not want of faith, Master Chettle. CHETTLE: Ha, ha! Ye have me there: quick wits, Master Fry, and the riposto tickles. There, I’m glad it’s settled. Send me the drawer and you shall have your money to-night. I never could haggle with a man of mind. And I bring you custom, man, more custom than any dozen, and such custom, the wits of London, the heads o’ the world! HOST: Ay, ay; but—— CHETTLE: There, there; it’s settled: honest men have but one word. I know you good, Master Fry; but hard like this new religion; hard. There, there! we are old friends. Send the drawer; he knows my ways and quickly; this tongue-fence hath made me dry. Here come my friends, a goodly company and all thirsty; despatch, man, despatch! [_Exit Host: Jonson and Burbage enter together; Fletcher, Dekker, Marston follow; the drawer brings back Chettle his sack._] SCENE II. JONSON: I thought we’d find you here, Chettle; but what are you doing? CHETTLE: [_Writing._] Writing, lad, for a meal, as a poet must in these niggard-tradesman times. BURBAGE: Have you seen Shakespeare? CHETTLE: Shakespeare? No. Why do you ask? Is there any news? BURBAGE: Great news! The Lord Chamberlain writes me to be in readiness to play before the Queen. I must to the theatre at once.