MARY. Were they not wise, those two Whose same blood beats again in you and me, That chose the desert and the fall and went Exultant from their garden and their God? Long shall the sworded angels stand at ease And idly guard the undesired delight: Long shall the grasses grow and tall the briars, And bent the branches of the ancient trees: And many a year the wilding flowers shall blaze Under a lonely sun, and fruited sweets Shall drop and rot, and feed the roots that feed, And bud again and ripen: long and long Silent the watchman-lark in heaven shall hang High over Eden, e’er they come again Those two, whose blood is our blood, and their love Our love, our own, that no god gave us, ours, The venture ours, the glory ours, the shame A price worth paying, then, now, ever-- SHAKESPEARE. Eve, Eve, Eve, the snake has been with you! You draw, You drink my soul as I your body-- MARY. Kiss! THE CURTAIN FALLS. ACT III. SCENE I. SHAKESPEARE’S _lodging. It is the plain but well-arranged room of a man of fair means and fine taste. The walls are panelled: on them hang a couple of unframed engravings, a painting, tapestry, and a map of the known world. There is a four-post bed with a coverlet and hangings of needlework, and on the window-sill a pot of early summer flowers. There is a chair or two of oak and a table littered with papers_. SHAKESPEARE _is sitting at it, a manuscript in his hand. On the arm of the chair lolls_ MARLOWE, _one arm flung round_ SHAKESPEARE’S _neck, reading over his shoulder._ SHAKESPEARE. Man, how you’ve worked! A whole act to my ten lines! You dice all day and dance all night and yet--how do you do it? MARLOWE. Like it? SHAKESPEARE. Like it? What a word for a word-master! Consider, Kit! When the sun rises like a battle song over the sea: when the wind’s feet visibly race along the tree-tops of a ten-mile wood: when they shout “Amen!” in the Abbey, praying for the Queen on Armada Day: when the sky is a brass gong and the rain steel rods, and across all suddenly arch the seven colours of the promise--do I _like_ these wonders when I stammer and weep, and know that God lives? Like, Marlowe! MARLOWE. Yes, yes, old Will! But do you like the new act? SHAKESPEARE. I like it, Kit! [_They look at each other and laugh_]. MARLOWE. And now for your scene, ere I go. SHAKESPEARE. My scene! I give you what I’ve done. Finish it alone, Kit, and take what it brings! I’m sucked dry.