... with apologies to Christopher Marlowe
Robbo: Good Angel?
'Sweet Rory, think of Sussex, and heavenly things.'
Adams: Bad Angel?
'No, Rory, think of Surrey and of wealth.'
Rory: Tempted?
'How am I glutted with conceit of this!
Shall I make my players fetch me what I please,
Resolve me of all ambiguities,
Perform what desperate enterprise I will?'
RORY! Read the script first:
'Till, swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And melting heavens conspired his overthrow.'
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