FLETCHER: I’m with you. DEKKER } MARSTON } And I! CHETTLE: A drink, lads, before you go, to keep out the river-mist; water’s the cause of all my pains! JONSON: Sack, you mean; sack and canary that make your blood boil with gout. [_The drawer brings wine in large flagons._] CHETTLE: Not so, bully Ben. Not so. Rheumatics, not gout. Ah, had my mother but given me sack when I was young and tender, I had never known these whoreson tweakings. A pious upbringing, Ben, and a watery diet have been my undoing. BURBAGE: Do you go with us, Jonson? JONSON: No. I’m not known to your Lord Chamberlains. FLETCHER: Nor I. Yet I go to see the stir. JONSON: You are of the company. FLETCHER: No. I take Foster’s place; you can have Browne’s. JONSON: No, no! I’ll keep my own name and my own place. [_Enter Shakespeare._] Ho, Will! you’re to be a courtier; have you heard? SHAKESPEARE: No: what is it? BURBAGE: We must be ready: we may be summoned any day to play at Court: I have the order. JONSON: What’s Chettle chuckling over there? CHETTLE: [_Looking up from his writing._] Angling for supper, lads; just a snack. DEKKER: Let’s see Chettle’s snack. FLETCHER: [_Pounces on the paper and reads._] It’s a letter to Mistress Tagge of the “Tabard.” MARSTON: Let’s hear it! JONSON: Read it, Fletcher, read it! CHETTLE: No. No! Mad lads! That forked radish there shall not clapperclaw my work. If you must hear it I’ll read it myself. No whipper-snapper shall squeak my words! Now, lads, listen! [_Reads._] “To fair Mistress Tagge, the best hostess in London; _argal_ in the world! I kiss your hands most beauteous and bountiful; I have but now seen your drawer and heard that you want twenty angels to-night. The time’s short, but I’ll bring them as I’m a true man unless the rascal bookseller lies in his promise to me and that he’ll not dare—— JONSON: What a poor cheat! Who’s the bookseller, Chettle? CHETTLE: [_Reads on._] “This very night I’ll bring the angels to my angel!” JONSON: Oh, foul jest! CHETTLE: “But as I shall come late will sweet Mistress Tagge prepare me a mouthful of supper—any little thing’ll do—a snack just to provoke appetite, for indeed I’m far from strong. JONSON: Oh, mountainous weakling! Tun of lard! FLETCHER: Now for the snack, boys! Listen. CHETTLE: Ay, a snack, you pizzle; a snack for a man. [_Reads._] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey and—— SHAKESPEARE: [_Interrupting._] “Or indeed both,” Chettle, put in “or indeed both,”—the salmon and the lamprey. CHETTLE: Right you are, bully boy. Right! [_Corrects the letter and reads again._] “Say a slice of calver’d salmon at first or a pickled lamprey or indeed both, [_looks up at Shakespeare and laughs_] and then a loin of young pork dressed with your own select and poignant sauce and then a few oiled mushrooms—— SHAKESPEARE: