_Shakespeare’s bedchamber in his house at Stratford. The master is seated in a large chair close to the bed. A small table stands near the head of the bed. His daughter Judith is in the room; as the curtain goes up she goes to the door and admits Jonson and Drayton. She will scarcely look at them, and soon after leaves the room._ JONSON: [_Going quietly to bed._] We came to see you, Shakespeare, before we return to town. DRAYTON: We were so sorry to hear you were ill. But what’s the matter? SHAKESPEARE: My joy at seeing you both: the cup of wine last night; our great talk—have set the old candle guttering. JONSON: It isn’t what you drank; you were most temperate. SHAKESPEARE: I have poor unhappy brains for drinking: one cup, you know, was always too much for me. DRAYTON: It must have been the talk, Shakespeare; you drank nothing. But I never dreamt you were so weak; you used to seem strong enough. SHAKESPEARE: I was never strong, I think. Even as a youth any excitement robbed me of sleep and made me fanciful, and of late years I have only been well when very quiet—when the thin flame is lanterned from every breath [_with a gesture_]. But what matters it? If the candle goes out there’s an end. JONSON: I blame myself for having overtired you. But you talked wonderfully—as no one ever talked before, I think, and I could not pull you up; now I blame myself. SHAKESPEARE: There’s no blame possible. It was a great night; one of the greatest nights of my life. But give me more news: I seem to have heard nothing; are the boy-players still followed? DRAYTON: No: the fashion’s changed. There’s some talk of having girl-actresses to play the girls’ parts on the stage, as they do in France. JONSON: A mad proposal. It would bring the theatre into worse repute than ever, and give the Puritans a handle for attack. SHAKESPEARE: [_Smiling._] The pretty children! Now at sixteen they all wish to be nuns or nursing sisters: then they would not know whether to be nuns or actresses, and they would be sure to confuse the duties: if they acted they’d try to do good to their hearers, and if they tended the sick they would want pretty dresses and a crowd of spectators to admire their devotion. JONSON: Ha, ha! Excellent. DRAYTON: Come to London soon, Shakespeare. We all miss our gentle peacemaker and his wit. SHAKESPEARE: [_With deprecating gesture._] Tell me everything. Are there any new poets, new theatres? Do the Puritans disturb you? Here in my house my daughter puts preachers to lodge as soon as I go away for a week or so: to purge the air, I suppose, of my sinful presence. JONSON: There’s no great change. Pembroke is in greater favour than ever; he’s Lord Chamberlain now, and sends me money each year to buy books. SHAKESPEARE: Alms to escape oblivion. [_Leans back wearily and closes eyes as daughter re-enters room._] DRAYTON: [_To the daughter in a whisper._] He’s not dangerously ill, is he? JUDITH SHAKESPEARE: