ELIZABETH. How often have you come to me in those twelve years? HENSLOWE. Four times, Madam! ELIZABETH. Have I helped or hindered? HENSLOWE. I confess it, Madam, I have lived on your wits. ELIZABETH. Then who’s your man? HENSLOWE. You’ll not trust me. He has done little before the world. ELIZABETH. Shakespeare? HENSLOWE. Madam, you know everything. Will you see him? He and Marlowe are among our petitioners. ELIZABETH. H’m! the Stratford boy! I have not forgotten. HENSLOWE. Who could have promised better? He came to town like a conqueror. He took us all with his laughter. You yourself, Madam-- ELIZABETH. Yes, make us laugh and you may pick all pockets! He helped you to pick mine. HENSLOWE. So far good. But he aims no higher. Yet what he could do if he would! I have a sort of love of him, Madam. I found him: I taught him: I have daughters enough but no son. I have wrestled with him like Jacob at Peniel, but when I think to conquer he tickles my rib and I laugh. That’s his weapon, Madam! With his laughter he locks the door of his heart against every man. ELIZABETH. And every woman? HENSLOWE. They say--no, Madam! ELIZABETH. Then we must find her. HENSLOWE [_with a glance at_ MARY FITTON]. They say she is found already. But a court lady--and a player! It’s folly, Madam! Now Marlowe would shrug his shoulder and go elsewhere; but Shakespeare--there is about him in little and great a certain dogged and damnable constancy that wrecks all. If he cannot have the moon for his supper, he will starve, Madam, whatever an old fool says to him. ELIZABETH. Then, Henslowe, we must serve him up the moon. Mary! MARY [_rising and coming down to them_]. Madam? ELIZABETH. Could you hear us? MARY. I was playing the new song that the Earl set for you. ELIZABETH. For me? But you heard? MARY. Something of the talk, Madam! ELIZABETH. You go to all the plays, do you not? Which is the coming man, Mary, Shakespeare or Marlowe. MARY. If you ask me, Madam, I’m all for the cobbler’s son. HENSLOWE. Mistress Fitton should give us a sound reason if she have it, but she has none. MARY. Only that I don’t know Mr. Marlowe, and I know my little Shakespeare by heart. I’m an Athenian--I’m always asking for new tunes. ELIZABETH. Which is Shakespeare? The youngster like a smoking lamp, all aflare? MARY. No, Madam! That’s Marlowe. Shakespeare’s a lesser man. HENSLOWE. A lesser man? Marlowe the lamp, say you? He’s conflagration, he’s “Armada!” flashed From Kent to Cornwall! But this lesser man, He’s the far world the beacons can out flare One little hour, but, when their flame dies down, High o’er the embers in the deep of night Behold the star!