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is own time； the more placent he became。 He could remember； he said； a night at the Cock Tavern in Fleet Street when Kit Marlowe was there and some others。 Kit was in high feather； rather drunk； which he easily became； and in a mood to say silly things。 He could see him now； brandishing his glass at the pany and hiccoughing out； ‘Stap my vitals； Bill’ （this was to Shakespeare）； ‘there’s a great wave ing and you’re on the top of it；’ by which he meant； Greene explained； that they were trembling on the verge of a great age in English literature； and that Shakespeare was to be a poet of some importance。 Happily for himself； he was killed two nights later in a drunken brawl； and so did not live to see how this prediction turned out。 ‘Poor foolish fellow；’ said Greene； ‘to go and say a thing like that。 A great age； forsooth—the Elizabethan a great age！’
‘So； my dear Lord；’ he continued； settling himself fortably in his chair and rubbing the wine–glass between his fingers； ‘we must make the best of it； cherish the past and honour those writers—there are still a few of ‘em—who take antiquity for their model and write； not for pay but for Glawr。’ （Orlando could have wished him a better accent。） ‘Glawr’； said Greene； ‘is the spur of noble minds。 Had I a pension of three hundred pounds a year paid quarterly； I would live for Glawr alone。 I would lie in bed every morning reading Cicero。 I would imitate his style so that you couldn’t tell the difference between us。 That’s what I call fine writing；’ said Greene； ‘that’s what I call Glawr。 But it’s necessary to have a pension to do it。’
By this time Orlando had abandoned all hope of discussing his own work with the poet； but this mattered the less as the talk now got upon the lives and characters of Shakespeare； Ben Jonson； and the rest； all of whom Greene had known intimately and about whom he had a thousand anecdotes of the most amusing kind to tell。 Orlando had never laughed so much in his life。 These； then； were his gods！ Half were drunken and all were amorous。 Most of them quarrelled with their wives； not one of them was above a lie or an intrigue of the most paltry kind。 Their poetry was scribbled down on the backs of washing bills held to the heads of printer’s devils at the street door。 Thus Hamlet went to press； thus Lear； thus Othello。 No wonder； as Greene said； that these plays show the faults they do。 The rest of the time was spent in carousings and junketings in taverns and in beer gardens； When things were said that passed belief for wit； and things were done that made the utmost frolic of the courtiers seem pale in parison。 All this Greene told with a spirit that roused Orlando to the highest pitch of delight。 He had a power of mimicry that brought the dead to life； and could say the finest things of books provided they were written three hundred years ago。
So time passed； and Orlando felt for his guest a strange mixture of liking and contempt； of admiration and pity； as well as something too indefinite to be called by any one name； but had something of fear in it and something of fascination。 He talked incessantly about himself； yet was such good pany that one could listen to the story of his ague for ever。 Then he was so witty； then he was so irreverent； then he made so free with the names of God and Woman； then he was So full of queer crafts and had such strange lore in his head； could make salad in three hundred different ways； knew all that could be known of the mixing of wines； played half–a–dozen musical instruments； and was the first person； and perhaps the last； to toast cheese in the great Italian fireplace。 That he did not know a geranium from a carnation； an oak from a birch tree； a mastiff from a greyhound； a teg from a ewe； wheat from barley； plough land from fallow； was ignorant of the rotation of the crops； thought oranges grew underground and turnips on trees； preferred any townscape to any landscape；—all this and much more amazed Orlando； who had never met anybody of his kind before。 Even the maids； who despised him； tittered at his jokes； and the men–servants； who loathed him； hung about to hear his stories。 Indeed； the house had never been so lively as now that he was there—all of which gave Orlando a great deal to think about； and caused him to pare this way of life with the old。 He recalled the sort of talk he had been used to about the King of Spain’s apoplexy or the mating of a bitch； he bethought him how the day passed between the stables and the dressing closet； he remembered how the Lords snored over their wine and hated anybody who woke them up。 He bethought him how active and valiant they were in body； how slothful and timid in mind。 Worried by these thoughts； and unable to strike a proper balance； he came to the conclusion that he had admitted to his house a plaguey spirit of unrest that would never suffer him to sleep sound again。
At the same moment； Nick Greene came to precisely the opposite conclusion。 Lying in bed of a morning on the softest pillows between the smoothest sheets and looking out of his oriel window upon turf which for centuries had known neither dandelion nor dock weed； he thought that unless he could somehow make his escape； he should be smothered alive。 Getting up and hearing the pigeons coo； dressing and hearing the fountains fall； he thought that unless he could hear the drays roar upon the cobbles of Fleet Street； he would never write another line。 If this goes on much longer； he thought； hearing the footman mend the fire and spread the table with silver dishes next door； I shall fall asleep and （here he gave a prodigious yawn） sleeping die。
So he sought Orlando in his room； and explained that he had not been able to sleep a wink all night because of the silence。 （Indeed； the house was surrounded by a park fifteen miles in circumference and a wall ten feet high。） Silence； he said； was of all things the most oppressive to his nerves。 He would end his visit； by Orlando’s leave； that very morning。 Orlando felt some relief at this； yet also a great reluctance to let him go。 The house； he thought； would seem very dull without him。 On parting （for he had never yet liked to ment