“He has not yet decided. Southwark, perhaps. The better to throw down the gauntlet to Philip Henslowe and the Rose. ‘Twould all take time, however, and meanwhile, you and I must eat. Therefore, I propose that we follow Ned Alleyn and Will Kemp and join Lord Strange’s Men. Afterward, we shall see what the future may bring.”
“Another Theatre, better than the first,” said Smythe, trying to imagine such a thing. “And even better than the Rose? Twould be something marvelous, indeed. Would it still be called the Theatre?”
Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, Dick said the name would need to encompass greater grandeur. Something better… something bigger. He rather likes the Globe.”
“The Globe,” repeated Smythe. He nodded. “ ‘Tis a grand name, indeed.”
“Aye, but for the present, we shall be playing at the Rose,” said Shakespeare. “When times are lean, a man must find what work he can. And, to that end, I am once more embarking upon my sonneteering. I have been working upon this one, tell me what you think…”
“Oh, Will, you are not going to read me another poem?”
“ ‘Tis just a short one.”
Smythe rolled his eyes and lay back on the bed. “Oh, very well,” he said. “You found us work, after all. I suppose the very least that I can do is listen to your doggerel.”
“ ‘Tis a sonnet, not doggerel, you carbuncle!”
“If you say so,” Smythe replied, wryly. He sighed. “Very well. Lay on, MacDuff…”