He has a bitter tongue, and his heart is not to be mellowed by wine.

The table roars over his sallies, of which the landlord himself is dimly conscious that he is the butt, and Kempe and Cowley wince under his satire.

Those excellent comedians fall out over a trifling difference of opinion; and handsome Nash--he tells us himself that he was handsome, so there can be no doubt about it--maintains that they should decide the dispute by fist-cuffs without further loss of time.

While Kempe and Cowley threaten to break each other's heads--which, indeed, would be no great matter if they did it quietly--Burbage is reciting vehemently, with no one heeding him; and Marlowe insists on quarrelling with Armin about the existence of a Deity.

For when Kit is drunk he is an infidel.
Armin will not quarrel with anybody, and Marlowe is exasperated.
[Illustration] But where is Shakespeare all this time?
He has retired to a side table with Alleyn, who has another historical play that requires altering.
Their conversation is of comparatively little importance; what we are to note with bated breath is that Will is filling a pipe.