ALL TOGETHER. Hey, Death! Ho, Death! Let me go, Death! I’ll never drink with thee! MARLOWE. What voice is that? MARY _stands in the doorway. She is dressed as a boy, with cloak, riding boots, and slouch cap._ MARY [_singing_]. If Love should pass me by, I’ll follow till I find him, And when I hear him sigh, I’ll tear the veils that blind him. Up, man! Dance, man! Take your chance, man! Who’ll get a kiss from me? ALL TOGETHER. Hey, Love! Ho, Love! None shall know, Love! Keep but a kiss for me! [_They clap._] THE MAN [_to_ MARLOWE]. Ghost of a nightingale! D’you know him? MARLOWE. I think I do. [_To_ MARY, _aside_] What April freak is this? THE MAN [_with a glass_]. Spirits to spirit, young sir! Have a drink! MARY. I should choke, sir! We drink nectar in my country. THE MAN. Where’s that, ghost? MARY. Oh, somewhere on the soft side of heaven where the poppies grow. THE MAN. He swore you were dead and buried. MARY. And so I was. But there’s a witch in London so sighs for him and so cries for him, that in the end she whistled me out of my gravity and sent me here to fetch him home to her. THE MAN. Her name, transparency, her name? MARY. Why, sir, I rode in such haste that my memory could not keep up with me. It’ll not be here this half hour. MARLOWE. Landlord, pour ale for a dozen, and these friends will drink to her, name or no name--in the next room. THE MAN. Kit, you’re a man of tact! I’m a man of tact. We’re all men of tact! Ho, boys! Hey, boys! Come this way, boys! Who’ll have a drink with me? _The door closes on them._ MARY. Well, did you ever see a better boy? My hair was the only trouble. MARLOWE. Madcap! What does this mean? MARY. What I said! [_singing_]. Moth, where are you flown? To burn in a flame! Moth, I lie alone-- You’ve not been near me these four days. MARLOWE. Uneasy days--I could not. MARY. Are you burned, moth? Are the poor wings a-frizzle? MARLOWE. Not mine, dear candle, but a king of moths, But a great hawk-moth, velvet as the night He beats with twilight wings, he, he is singed, Fallen to earth and pitiful. MARY. Oh, Shakespeare! My dear, I’ve run away because I hate The smell of burning. He was to come to me to-night to tell me his tragedies and his comedies and--oh, I yawn! And I played her so well too at the first-- MARLOWE. Who?