Good eve, groundlyngs. Kit and Your Will hath passed a curious eve at the Boar’s Head, where we didst share in a plate of birdes steeped in wine. We didst make merrie over draughts of ale, and mused over those tales of Ovid’s whiche woulde make for good theatre. 

Of a soudaine, we heard the sounde of trunk hitting threshholde of the tavern, and in didst walk the strangest manne your Will hath perceivéd in Old Tom’s Boar’s Heade in manie a day. ‘Twas a Frencheman, by his dress so branded. In his arms, he didst cradle a smalle dogge.

His accent, though stronge, didst not mar his matter: “Hast any rooms, good sir?”

Old Tom grunted. “I brooke no dogges in here.”

The Frencheman’s wearie face didst betray his heart. “What if I pay thee for her lodge? My Michel will cause no worrie.”

“I mean thou, Frenchman,” Old Tom snapped. “Your tuffet dog is less bother than you or any French.”

“Minde him not,” Kit interrupted. “Thou canst sup with us, Frenchman. If Old Tom will not grant thee lodging, we canst direct thee to the Blackfriars, where thou are bounde to finde better service.”

Tom grunted again and left us.

“Merci,” the Frenchman pulled up seat. “I am Pierre de Larivey, poet. Manie in France do admire my playes.”

“Christopher Marlowe,” replied Kit. “And what doth bring thee to oure shores?”

“I hath heard of your Englishe theatre,” Larivey explained. “So I come to see some of the Englishe playes.”

Ah, groundlyngs! How Kit and I didst laugh, to the confusion of poor Larivey. ‘Twas a man well met indeede!