/> "Thank ye, lad," the old wherry-man replied, catching the coin. "Mind now, ye go muckin' about with the likes o' Shy Locke and 'tis fortune's darlings ye will need to be to come out with your heads all in one piece. Do what ye please, but just remember old Puck the Wherry-man and what 'e told ye."
"We shall do that, Puck, and thank you," Smythe replied, as the wherry-man pulled away in search of another fare. "A right good fellow, that," he said to Shakespeare.
"Aye. A good fellow, indeed. But did you happen to pay any mind to what he said?"
"He said 'twould rain soon."
"And that we would do well to avoid any dealings with the likes of this Shy Locke if we wanted to keep our heads from being broken," Shakespeare said.
"We have already had some dealings with him," Smythe replied, as they ascended the steps to the street, "and thus tar, we seem to have survived with our heads unscathed:"
'Thus far," Shakespeare replied with a grimace.
"Oh, stop worrying so much, Will," said Smythe with a grin. "'Tis a simple enough matter. All we need do is deliver his message to Thomas Locke and there will be an end to it. 'Tis not as if we were embarking upon a precarious journey to some den of thieves!"
"It seems to me that when all of this started, 'twas merely a simple matter of going to a tavern so that you could meet your favourite pamphleteer," Shakespeare replied dryly. "Your 'simple matters' have a disconcerting tendency to become byzantine in their complexity."
"And this from a man who cannot seem to get a single play finished before he begins a new one," Smythe replied. "How many are you working on at present? Three? Or is it four?"
"A poet must follow his inspiration," Shakespeare replied. "He might do better to generate some perspiration by applying himself to only one task at a time," Smythe said.
"Oh, indeed? And where, pray tell, did you learn your mastery in the craft of poetry? Whilst apprenticing with your Uncle Thomas at his forge? Doubtless, you declaimed the classics to one another between hammer blows upon the anvil. Beat the verses into submission, I suppose. Iambic pentameter, if you will."
"“I am a what?"
"Oh, never mind," said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. "To you, a heroic couplet probably suggests Greek ardor."
"What the devil are you talking about?"
'"Your education, sirrah, or, more to the point, the lack of it.
'Tis showing as brightly as a pinked sleeve. I shall take your lead when it comes to smithing or weaponry or knowledge of the criminal underworld, about which you have read so exhaustively and exhaustingly, but when it comes to poetry, my friend, I shall thank you to speak little, or, better yet, speak not at all."
"Do you know, if you expended as much effort in your writing as you do in tongue lashing, then your productions would be hailed throughout the world," said Smythe.
"And if you spent half as much time learning your lines as you do in finding fault with me, then London would forget Ned Alleyn and hail you as the greatest actor of all time!"
"Hark, methinks I hear a kite screeching," Smythe said sourly. ""Whilst I hear a tiresome and rustic drone," Shakespeare replied.
"Rustic? Rustic, did you say? And this from a bog-trotting, leather-jerkined Stratford glovemaker! See how yon pot calls the kettle black!"
"Bog-trotting, leather-jerkined glovemaker? Oh, that was vile!"
"Well, if the muddy gauntlet fits…
""Why, you base and timorous scoundrel! You call me a leather-jerkined bog-trotter whilst you lumber about London in country galligaskins and hempen homespun like some hedge-hopping haggard? You raucous crow!"
"Unmannered dog!"
"Rooting hog!"
"Yelping cur!"
"Honking goose!"
"Balding miscreant!"
"Balding? Balding? "Why, you vaporous churl…