Chapter VIII: Part 8

[648] The original has "Aquarius."--Ganymede was changed into the sign Aquarius: see Hyginus' _Poeticon Astron._ II. 29.

[649] Claws.

[650] A MÊnad.--Old ed. "MÊnus."

[651] The original has "NubiferÊ."

[652] Old ed. "hence."

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.[653]

Come[654] live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and vallies, dales and fields,[655]
Woods or steepy mountain yields.[656]

And we will[657] sit upon the rocks,
Seeing[658] the shepherds feed their[659] flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing[660] madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses[661]
And[662] a thousand fragrant posies,
A cup of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown[663] made of the finest wooll
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-linËd[664] slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
An if these pleasures may thee move,
Come[665] live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd-swains[666] shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

FOOTNOTES:

[653] This delightful pastoral song was first published, without the fourth and sixth stanzas, in _The Passionate Pilgrim_, 1599. It appeared complete in _England's Helicon_, 1600, with Marlowe's name subscribed. By quoting it in the _Complete Angler_, 1653, Izaak Walton has made it known to a world of readers.

[654] Omitted in P. P.

[655] So P. P.--E. H. "That vallies, groves, hills and fieldes."--Walton "That vallies, groves, or hils or fields."

[656] So E. H.--P. P. "And the craggy mountain yields."--Walton "Or, woods and steepie mountains yeelds."

[657] So E. H.--P. P. "There will we."--Walton "Where we will."

[658] So E. H.--P. P. and Walton "And see."

[659] So E. H. and P. P.--Walton "our."

[660] So P. P. and Walton.--E. H. "sings."

[661] So E. H. and Walton.--P. P. "There will I make thee a bed of roses."

[662] So E. H.--P. P. "With."--Walton "And then."

[663] This stanza is omitted in P. P.

[664] So E. H.--Walton "Slippers lin'd choicely."

[665] So E. H. and Walton.--P. P. "Then."--After this stanza there follows in the second edition of the _Complete Angler_, 1655, an additional stanza:--

"Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepar'd each day for thee and me."

[666] This stanza is omitted in P. P.--E. H. and Walton "The sheep-heards swaines."

[In _England's Helicon_ Marlowe's song is followed by the "Nymph's
Reply to the Shepherd" and "Another of the same Nature made since."
Both are signed _Ignoto_, but the first of these pieces has been
usually ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh[667]--on no very substantial
grounds.]

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Times drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these to me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

FOOTNOTES:

[667] Oldys in his annotated copy (preserved in the British Museum) of Langbaine's _Engl. Dram. Poets_, under the article _Marlowe_ remarks:--"Sir Walter Raleigh was an encourager of his [_i.e._ Marlowe's] Muse; and he wrote an answer to a Pastoral Sonnet of Sir Walter's [_sic_], printed by Isaac Walton in his book of fishing." It would be pleasant to think that Marlowe enjoyed Raleigh's patronage; but Oldys gives no authority for his statement.

ANOTHER OF THE SAME NATURE MADE SINCE.

Come live with me, and be my dear,
And we will revel all the year,
In plains and groves, on hills and dales,
Where fragrant air breathes sweetest gales.

There shall you have the beauteous pine,
The cedar, and the spreading vine;
And all the woods to be a screen,
Lest Phoebus kiss my Summer's Queen.

The seat for your disport shall be
Over some river in a tree,
Where silver sands and pebbles sing
Eternal ditties to the spring.

There shall you see the nymphs at play,
And how the satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.

The birds with heavenly tunËd throats
Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes,
Which to your senses will impart
A music to enflame the heart.

Upon the bare and leafless oak
The ring-doves' wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess
To play with me and do no less.

In bowers of laurel trimly dight
We will out-wear the silent night,
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.

Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
And all these sparkling lights shall spend
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with most majesty.

Then in mine arms will I enclose
Lilies' fair mixture with the rose,
Whose nice perfection in love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.

Thus as we pass the welcome night
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds,
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.

If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to Love's Paradise,
Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will then begin the year.

The following verses in imitation of Marlowe are by Donne:--

THE BAIT.

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasure prove
Of golden sands and christal brooks
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river whispering run,
Warm'd by thine eyes more than the sun;
And there th' enamoured fish will stay
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish which every channel hath
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee than thou him.

If thou to be so seen beest loath
By sun or moon, thou darkenest both;
And if my self have leave to see,
I heed not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset
With strangling snare or winding net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks outwrest,
Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes.

For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait:
That fish that is not catched thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.

Herrick has a pastoral invitation

TO PHILLIS TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM.

Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee;
What sweets the country can afford
Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board.

The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed
With crawling woodbine overspread:
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.

Thy clothing next shall be a gown
Made of the fleeces' purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
Their milk thy drink; and thou shall eat

The paste of filberts for thy bread,
With cream of cowslips buttered.
Thy feasting-tables shall be hills
With daisies spread and daffodils;

Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by
For meat shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets
Of primroses and violets.

A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
That richly wrought and this as brave,
So that as either shall express
The wearer's no mean shepherdess.

At shearing-times and yearly wakes,
When Themilis his pastime makes,
There thou shalt be; and be the wit,
Nay more, the feast and grace of it.

On holidays when virgins meet
To dance the hays with nimble feet,
Thou shalt come forth and then appear
The queen of roses for that year;

And having danced ('bove all the best)
Carry the garland from the rest.
In wicker-baskets maids shall bring
To thee, my dearest shepherdling,

The blushing apple, bashful pear,
And shame-faced plum all simp'ring there:
Walk in the groves and thou shalt find
The name of Phillis in the rind

Of every straight and smooth-skin tree,
Where kissing that I'll twice kiss thee.
To thee a sheep-hook I will send
Be-prankt with ribands to this end,

This, this alluring hook might be
Less for to catch a sheep than me.
Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine,
Not made of ale but spiced wine;

To make thy maids and self free mirth,
All sitting near the glittering hearth.
Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes and strings,
Of winning colours that shall move
Others to lust but me to love.
These, nay, and more, thine own shall be
If thou wilt love and live with me.

FRAGMENT.[668]

I walk'd along a stream, for pureness rare,
Brighter than sun-shine; for it did acquaint
The dullest sight with all the glorious prey
That in the pebble-pavËd channel lay.

No molten crystal, but a richer mine,
Even Nature's rarest alchymy ran there,--
Diamonds resolv'd, and substance more divine,
Through whose bright-gliding current might appear
A thousand naked nymphs, whose ivory shine,
Enamelling the banks, made them more dear
Than ever was that glorious palace' gate
Where the day-shining Sun in triumph sate.

Upon this brim the eglantine and rose,
The tamarisk, olive, and the almond tree,
As kind companions, in one union grows,
Folding their twining[669] arms, as oft we see
Turtle-taught lovers either other close,
Lending to dulness feeling sympathy;
And as a costly valance o'er a bed,
So did their garland-tops the brook o'erspread.

Their leaves, that differ'd both in shape and show,
Though all were green, yet difference such in green,
Like to the checker'd bent of Iris' bow,
Prided the running main, as it had been--

FOOTNOTES:

[668] From _England's Parnassus_, 1600, p. 480, where it is subscribed "Ch. Marlowe."

[669] The text of _England's Parnassus_ has "twindring," which is corrected in the _Errata_, to "twining."

DIALOGUE IN VERSE.[670]

JACK.

Seest thou not yon farmer's son?
He hath stoln my love from me, alas!
What shall I do? I am undone;
My heart will ne'er be as it was.
O, but he gives her gay gold rings,
And tufted gloves [for] holiday,
And many other goodly things,
That hath stolen my love away.

FRIEND.

Let him give her gay gold rings
Or tufted gloves, were they ne'er so [gay]; 10
[F]or were her lovers lords or kings,
They should not carry the wench away.

[JACK.]

But 'a dances wonders well,
And with his dances stole her love from me:
Yet she wont to say I bore the bell
For dancing and for courtesy.

DICK.[671]

Fie, lusty younker, what do you here,
Not dancing on the green to-day?
For Pierce, the farmer's son, I fear,
Is like to carry your wench away. 20

[JACK.]

Good Dick, bid them all come hither,
And tell Pierce from me beside,
That, if he thinks to have the wench,
Here he stands shall lie with the bride.

DICK.[672]

Fie, Nan, why use thy old lover so,
For any other new-come guest?
Thou long time his love did know;
Why shouldst thou not use him best?

[NAN.]

Bonny Dick, I will not forsake
My bonny Rowland for any gold: 30
If he can dance as well as Pierce,
He shall have my heart in hold.

PIERCE.

Why, then, my hearts, let's to this gear;
And by dancing I may won
My Nan, whose love I hold so dear
As any realm under the sun.

GENTLEMAN.[673]

Then, gentles, ere I speed from hence
I will be so bold to dance
A turn or two without offence;
For, as I was walking along by chance, 40
I was told you did agree.

[FRIEND.]

'Tis true, good sir; and this is she
Hopes your worship comes not to crave her;
For she hath lovers two or three,
And he that dances best must have her.

GENTLEMAN.

How say you, sweet, will you dance with me?
And you [shall] have both land and [hill];
My love shall want nor gold nor fee.

[NAN.]

I thank you, sir, for your good will;
But one of these my love must be: 50
I'm but a homely country maid,
And far unfit for your degree;
[To dance with you I am afraid.]

FRIEND.

Take her, good sir, by the hand,
As she is fairest; were she fairer,
By this dance, you shall understand,
He that can win her is like to wear her.

FOOL.

And saw you not [my] Nan to-day,
My mother's maid have you not seen?
My pretty Nan is gone away 60
To seek her love upon the green.
[I cannot see her 'mong so many:]
She shall have me, if she have any.

NAN.[674]

Welcome, sweet-heart, and welcome here,
Welcome, my [true] love, now to me.
This is my love [and my darling dear],
And that my husband [soon] must be.
And, boy, when thou com'st home thou'lt see
Thou art as welcome home as he.

GENTLEMAN.

Why, how now, sweet Nan! I hope you jest. 70

NAN.[675]

No, by my troth, I love the fool the best:
And, if you be jealous, God give you good-night!
I fear you're a gelding, you caper so light.

GENTLEMAN.

I thought she had jested and meant but a fable,
But now do I see she hath play'[d] with his bable.[676]
I wish all my friends by me to take heed,
That a fool come not near you when you mean to speed.

FOOTNOTES:

[670] First printed in _The Alleyn Papers_ (for the Shakespeare Society), p. 8, by Collier, who remarks:--"In the original MS. this dramatic dialogue in verse is written as prose, on one side of a sheet of paper, at the back of which, in a more modern hand, is the name 'Kitt Marlowe.' What connection, if any, he may have had with it, it is impossible to determine, but it was obviously worthy of preservation, as a curious stage-relic of an early date, and unlike anything else of the kind that has come down to us. In consequence of haste or ignorance on the part of the writer of the manuscript, it has been necessary to supply some portions, which are printed within brackets. There are also some obvious errors in the distribution of the dialogue, which it was not easy to correct. The probability is that, when performed, it was accompanied with music."

[671] MS. "Jack."

[672] MS. "W. Fre."--which Dyce supposed to be an abbreviation for _Wench's Friend_.

[673] MS. "Frend."

[674] MS. "Wen" (_i.e._ Wench).

[675] MS. "Wen."

[676] Bauble.

APPENDICES.

APPENDICES.

No. I.

THE ATHEIST'S TRAGEDIE.[677]

All you that have got eares to heare,
Now listen unto mee;
Whilst I do tell a tale of feare;
A true one it shall bee:

A truer storie nere was told,
As some alive can showe;
'Tis of a man in crime grown olde,
Though age he did not know.

This man did his owne God denie
And Christ his onelie son,
And did all punishment defie,
So he his course might run.

Both day and night would he blaspheme,
And day and night would sweare,
As if his life was but a dreame,
Not ending in dispaire.

A poet was he of repute,
And wrote full many a playe,
Now strutting in a silken sute,
Then begging by the way.

He had alsoe a player beene
Upon the Curtaine-stage,
But brake his leg in one lewd scene,
When in his early age.

He was a fellow to all those
That did God's laws reject,
Consorting with the Christians' foes
And men of ill aspect.

Ruffians and cutpurses hee
Had ever at his backe,
And led a life most foule and free,
To his eternall wracke.

He now is gone to his account,
And gone before his time,
Did not his wicked deedes surmount
All precedent of crime.

But he no warning ever tooke
From others' wofull fate,
And never gave his life a looke
Untill it was too late.

He had a friend, once gay and greene.[678]
Who died not long before,
The wofull'st wretch was ever seen,
The worst ere woman bore,

Unlesse this Wormall[679] did exceede
Even him in wickednesse,
Who died in the extreemest neede
And terror's bitternesse.

Yet Wormall ever kept his course,
Since nought could him dismay;
He knew not what thing was remorse
Unto his dying day.

Then had he no time to repent
The crimes he did commit,
And no man ever did lament
For him, to dye unfitt.

Ah, how is knowledge wasted quite
On such want wisedome true,
And that which should be guiding light
But leades to errors newe!

Well might learnd Cambridge oft regret
He ever there was bred:
The tree she in his mind had set
Brought poison forth instead.

His lust was lawlesse as his life,
And brought about his death;
For, in a deadlie mortall strife,
Striving to stop the breath

Of one who was his rivall foe,
With his owne dagger slaine,
He groand, and word spoke never moe,
Pierc'd through the eye and braine.

Thus did he come to suddaine ende
That was a foe to all,
And least unto himselfe a friend,
And raging passion's thrall.

Had he been brought up to the trade
His father follow'd still,
This exit he had never made,
Nor played a part soe ill.

Take warning ye that playes doe make,
And ye that doe them act;
Desist in time for Wormall's sake,
And thinke upon his fact.

Blaspheming Tambolin must die,
And Faustus meete his ende;
Repent, repent, or presentlie
To hell ye must discend.

What is there, in this world, of worth,
That we should prize it soe?
Life is but trouble from our birth,
The wise do say and know.

Our lives, then, let us mend with speed,
Or we shall suerly rue
The end of everie hainous deede,
In life that shall insue.

_Finis. Ign._

FOOTNOTES:

[677] In the Introduction I have expressed my opinion that this ballad is a forgery.

[678] We are to suppose an allusion to Robert Greene.

[679] The anagram of Marlowe.

No. II.

In a copy of _Hero and Leander_ Collier found, together with other questionable matter, the following MS. notes:--"Feb. 10, 1640. Mr. [two words follow in cipher], that Marloe was an atheist, and wrot a booke against [two words in cipher,] how that it was all one man's making, and would have printed it, but it would not be suffred to be printed. Hee was a rare scholar, and made excellent verses in Latine. He died aged about 30."--"Marloe was an acquaintance of Mr. [a name follows in cipher] of Douer, whom hee made become an atheist; so that he was faine to make a recantation vppon this text, 'The foole hath said in his heart there is no God.'"--"This [the name in cipher] learned all Marloe by heart."--"Marloe was stabd with a dagger and dyed swearing."

No. III.

A NOTE[680]

CONTAYNINGE THE OPINION OF ONE CHRISTOFER MARYLE, CONCERNYNGE HIS DAMNABLE OPINIONS AND JUDGMENT OF RELYGION AND SCORNE OF GODS WORDE.

FROM MS. HARL. 6853, FOL. 320.

That the Indians and many Authors of Antiquitei have assuredly written of aboue 16 thowsande yeers agone, wher Adam is proved to have leyved within 6 thowsande yeers.

_He affirmeth_[681] That Moyses was but a Juggler, and that one Heriots can do more then hee.

That Moyses made the Jewes to travell fortie yeers in the wildernes (which iorny might have ben don in lesse then one yeer) er they came to the promised lande, to the intente that those whoe wer privei to most of his subtileteis might perish, and so an everlastinge supersticion remayne in the hartes of the people.

That the firste beginnynge of Religion was only to keep men in awe.

That it was an easye matter for Moyses, beinge brought up in all the artes of the Egiptians, to abvse the Jewes, being a rvde and grosse people.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *[682]

That he [Christ] was the sonne of a carpenter, and that, yf the Jewes amonge whome he was born did crvcifye him, thei best knew him and whence he came.

That Christ deserved better to dye than Barrabas, and that the Jewes made a good choyce, though Barrabas were both a theife and a murtherer.

That yf ther be any God or good Religion, then it is in the Papistes, becavse the service of God is performed with more ceremonyes, as elevacion of the masse, organs, singinge men, _shaven crownes_, &c. That all protestantes ar hipocriticall Asses.

That, yf he wer put to write a new religion, he wolde vndertake both a more excellent and more admirable methode, and that all the new testament is filthely written.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That all the Appostels wer fishermen and base fellowes, nether of witt nor worth, that Pawle only had witt, that he was a timerous fellow in biddinge men to be subiect to magistrates against his conscience.

_That he had as good right to coyne as the Queen of Englande, and that he was acquainted with one Poole, a prisoner in newgate, whoe hath great skill in mixture of mettalls, and havinge learned such thinges of him, he ment, thorough help of a cvnnynge stampe-maker, to coyne french crownes, pistolettes, and englishe shillinges._

That, yf Christ had instituted the Sacramentes with more cerymonyall reverence, it would have ben had in more admiracion, that it wolde have ben much better beinge administred in a Tobacco pype.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That one Richard Cholmelei[683] hath confessed that he was perswaded by Marloes reason to become an Athieste.

_Theis thinges, with many other, shall by good and honest men be proved to be his opinions and common speeches, and that this Marloe doth not only holde them himself, but almost in every company he commeth, perswadeth men to Athiesme, willinge them not to be afrayed of bugbeares and hobgoblins, and vtterly scornynge both God and his ministers, as I Richard Bome_ [sic] _will justify bothe by my othe and the testimony of many honest men, and almost all men with whome he hath conversed any tyme will testefy the same:_ _and, as I thincke, all men in christianitei ought to endevor that the mouth of so dangerous a member may be stopped._

_He sayeth moreover that he hath coated[684] a number of contrarieties out of the scriptures, which he hath geeven to some great men, who in convenient tyme shalbe named. When theis thinges shalbe called in question, the witnesses shalbe produced._

RYCHARD BAME.

(Endorsed)

_Copye of Marloes blasphemyes
as sent to her H[ighness]._

[Now-a-days inquiries as to the age of the earth are of interest only to Geologists; and all may criticise with impunity the career of Moses--provided that they do not employ the shafts of ridicule too freely. Marlowe's strictures on the New Testament--grossly exaggerated by the creature who penned the charges--were made from the literary point of view. We should blame nobody to-day for saying that the language of Revelations is poor and thin when compared with the language of Isaiah. Again, as to the statement that Romanism alone is logical, and that Protestantism has no _locus standi_,--has not the doctrine been proclaimed again and again in our own day by writers whom we all respect? The charge that Marlowe had announced his intention of coining French crowns is so utterly absurd as to throw discredit upon all the other statements. It must be remembered that the testimony was not upon oath, and that the deponent was a ruffian.]

FOOTNOTES:

[680] This is the original title, which has been partly scored through to make way for the following title:--_A Note delivered on Whitson eve last of the most horrible blasphemes utteryd by Christofer Marly who within iii dayes after came to a soden and fearfull end of his life._

[681] Words printed in italics are scored through in the MS.

[682] Where _lacunÊ_ occur the clauses are unfit for publication.

[683] In the margin are the words "he is layd for,"--_i.e._, steps are being taken for his apprehension.

[684] Quoted.

No. IV.

An edition of Marlowe cannot be more fitly concluded than by a reprint of Mr. R. H. Horne's noble and pathetic tragedy, _The Death of Marlowe_ (originally published in 1837), one of the few dramatic pieces of the present century that will have any interest for posterity. For permission to reprint this tragedy I am indebted to Mr. Horne's literary executor, Mr. H. Buxton Forman.

THE DEATH OF MARLOWE.

_DRAMATIS PERSON∆._

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, } _Dramatists and Actors._
THOMAS HEYWOOD, }

THOMAS MIDDLETON, _Dramatist._

CECILIA } _Runaway Wife of the drunkard,
} Bengough._

JACCONOT, _alias_ } _A Tavern Pander and Swashbuckler._
JACK-O'-NIGHT }

_Gentlemen, Officers, Servants, &c._

SCENE I.

_Public Gardens--Liberty of the Clink, Southwark._

_Enter_ MARLOWE _and_ HEYWOOD.

HEYWOOD.

Be sure of it.

MARLOWE.

I am; but not by your light.

HEYWOOD.

I speak it not in malice, nor in envy
Of your good fortune with so bright a beauty;
But I have heard such things!

MARLOWE.

Good Master Heywood,
I prithee plague me not with what thou'st heard;
I've seen, and I do love her--and, for hearing,
The music of her voice is in my soul,
And holds a rapturous jubilee 'midst dreams
That melt the day and night into one bliss.

HEYWOOD.

Beware the waking hour!

MARLOWE.

In lovely radiance,
Like all that's fabled of Olympus' queen,
She moves--as if the earth were undulant clouds,
And all its flowers her subject stars.

HEYWOOD.

Proceed.

MARLOWE.

Smile not; for 'tis most true: the very air
With her sweet presence is impregnate richly.
As in a mead, that's fresh with youngest green,
Some fragrant shrub, some secret herb, exhales
Ambrosial odours; or in lonely bower,
Where one may find the musk plant, heliotrope,
Geranium, or grape hyacinth, confers
A ruling influence, charming present sense
And sure of memory; so, her person bears
A natural balm, obedient to the rays
Of heaven--or to her own, which glow within,
Distilling incense by their own sweet power.
The dew at sunrise on a ripened peach
Was never more delicious than her neck.
Such forms are Nature's favourites.

HEYWOOD.

Come, come--
Pygmalion and Prometheus dwell within you!
You poetise her rarely, and exalt
With goddess-attributes, and chastity
Beyond most goddesses: be not thus serious!
If for a passing paramour thou'dst love her,
Why, so, so it may be well; but never place
Thy full heart in her hand.

MARLOWE.

I have--I do--
And I will lay it bleeding at her feet.
Reason no more, for I do love this woman:
To me she's chaste, whatever thou hast heard.
Whatever I may know, hear, find, or fancy,
I must possess her constantly, or die.

HEYWOOD.

Nay, if't be thus, I'll fret thine ear no more
With raven voice; but aid thee all I can.

MARLOWE.

Cecilia!--Go, dear friend--good Master Heywood,
Leave me alone--I see her coming thither!

HEYWOOD.

Bliss wait thy wooing; peace of mind its end!
(_aside_) His knees shake, and his face and hands are wet,
As with a sudden fall of dew--God speed him!
This is a desperate fancy! _Exit._

_Enter_ CECILIA.

CECILIA.

Thoughtful sir,
How fare you? Thou'st been reading much of late,
By the moon's light, I fear me?

MARLOWE.

Why so, lady?

CECILIA.

The reflex of the page is on thy face.

MARLOWE.

But in my heart the spirit of a shrine
Burns, with immortal radiation crown'd.

CECILIA.

Nay, primrose gentleman, think'st me a saint?

MARLOWE.

I feel thy power.

CECILIA.

I exercise no arts--
Whence is my influence?

MARLOWE.

From heaven, I think.
Madam, I love you--ere to-day you've seen it,
Although my lips ne'er breathed the word before;
And seldom as we've met and briefly spoken,
There are such spiritual passings to and fro
'Twixt thee and me--though I alone may suffer--
As make me know this love blends with my life;
Must branch with it, bud, blossom, put forth fruit,
Nor end e'en when its last husks strew the grave,
Whence we together shall ascend to bliss.

CECILIA.

Continued from this world?

MARLOWE.

Thy hand, both hands;
I kiss them from my soul!

CECILIA.

Nay, sir, you burn me--
Let loose my hands!

MARLOWE.

I loose them--half my life has thus gone from me!--
That which is left can scarce contain my heart,
Now grown too full with the high tide of joy,
Whose ebb, retiring, fills the caves of sorrow,
Where Syrens sing beneath their dripping hair,
And raise the mirror'd fate.

CECILIA.

Then, gaze not in it,
Lest thou should'st see thy passing funeral.
I would not--I might chance to see far worse.

MARLOWE.

Thou art too beautiful ever to die!
I look upon thee, and can ne'er believe it.

CECILIA.

O, sir--but passion, circumstance, and fate,
Can do far worse than kill: they can dig graves,
And make the future owners dance above them,
Well knowing how 'twill end. Why look you sad?
'Tis not your case; you are a man in love--
At least, you say so--and should therefore feel
A constant sunshine, wheresoe'er you tread,
Nor think of what's beneath. But speak no more:
I see a volume gathering in your eye
Which you would fain have printed in my heart;
But you were better cast it in the fire.
Enough you've said, and I enough have listened.

MARLOWE.

I have said naught.

CECILIA.

You have spoken very plain--
So, Master Marlowe, please you, break we off;
And, since your mind is now relieved--good day!

MARLOWE.

Leave me not thus!--forgive me!

CECILIA.

For what offence

MARLOWE.

The expression of my love.

CECILIA.

Tut! that's a trifle.
Think'st thou I ne'er saw men in love before?
Unto the summer of beauty they are common
As grasshoppers.

MARLOWE.

And to its winter, lady?

CECILIA.

There is no winter in my thoughts--adieu!

_Exit._

MARLOWE.

She's gone!--How leafless is my life!--My strength
Seems melted--my breast vacant--and in my brain
I hear the sound of a retiring sea.

_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Gravel Lane; Bankside._

_Enter_ HEYWOOD _and_ MIDDLETON.

MIDDLETON.

And yet it may end well, after his fit is over.

HEYWOOD.

But he is earnest in it.

MIDDLETON.

'Tis his habit; a little thunder clears the atmosphere. At present he is spell-bound, and smouldereth in a hot cloud of passion; but when he once makes his way, he will soon disperse his free spirit abroad over the inspired heavens.

HEYWOOD.

I fear me she will sow quick seed of feverish fancies in his mind that may go near to drive him mad.

MIDDLETON.

How so? He knoweth her for what she is, as well as for what she was;--the high-spirited and once virtuous wife of the drunkard Bengough. You remember him?

HEYWOOD.

I have seen him i' the mire. 'Twas his accustomed bed o' nights--and morning, too--many a time. He preferred _that_ to the angel he left at home. Some men do. 'Tis a sorrow to think upon.

MIDDLETON.

And one that tears cannot wash! Master Marlowe hath too deep a reading i' the books of nature to nail his heart upon a gilded weathercock. He is only desperate after the fashion of a pearl diver. When he hath enough he will desist--breathe freely, polish the shells, and build grottoes.

HEYWOOD.

Nay, he persisteth in _not_ knowing her for a courtesan--talks of her purity in burning words, that seem to glow and enhance his love from his convictions of her virtue; then suddenly falls into silent abstraction, looking like a man whose eyes are filled with visions of Paradise. No pains takes she to deceive him; for he supersedes the chance by deceiving himself beyond measure. He either listens not at all to intimation, or insists the contrary.

MIDDLETON.

This is his passionate aggravation or self will: he _must_ know it.

HEYWOOD.

'Tis my belief; but her beauty blinds him with its beams, and drives his exiled reason into darkness.

MIDDLETON.

Here comes one that could enlighten his perception, methinks.

HEYWOOD.

Who's he? Jack-o'-night, the tavern pander and swashbuckler.

_Enter_ JACCONOT.

JACCONOT.

Save ye, my masters; lusty thoughts go with ye, and a jovial full cup wait on your steps: so shall your blood rise, and honest women pledge ye in their dreams!

MIDDLETON.

Your weighty-pursed knowledge of women, balanced against your squinting knowledge of honesty, Master Jack-o'-night, would come down to earth, methinks, as rapid as a fall from a gallows-tree.

JACCONOT.

Well said, Master Middleton--a merry devil and a long-lived one run monkey-wise up your back-bone! May your days be as happy as they're sober, and your nights full of applause! May no brawling mob pelt you, or your friends, when throned, nor hoot down your plays when your soul's pinned like a cockchafer on public opinion! May no learned or unlearned calf write against your knowledge and wit, and no brother paper-stainer pilfer your pages, and then call you a general thief! Am I the only rogue and vagabond in the world?

MIDDLETON.

I' faith, not: nay, an' thou wert, there would be no lack of them i' the next generation. Thou might'st be the father of the race, being now the bodily type of it. The phases of thy villany are so numerous that, were they embodied they would break down the fatal tree which is thine inheritance, and cause a lack of cords for the Thames shipping!

JACCONOT.

Don't choke me with compliments!

HEYWOOD (_to_ MIDDLETON).

He seems right proud of this multiplied idea of his latter end.

JACCONOT.

Ay; hanging's of high antiquity, and, thereto, of broad modern repute. The flag, the sign, the fruit, the felon, and other high and mighty game, all hang; though the sons of ink and sawdust try to stand apart, smelling civet, as one should say,--faugh! Jewelled caps, ermined cloaks, powdered wigs, church bells, _bona-roba_ bed-gowns, gilded bridles, spurs, shields, swords, harness, holy relics, and salted hogs, all hang in glory! Pictures, too, of rare value! Also music's ministrants,--the lute, the horn, the fiddle, the pipe, the gong, the viol, the salt-box, the tambourine and the triangle, make a dead-wall dream of festive harmonies!

MIDDLETON.

Infernal discords, thou would'st say!

JACCONOT (_rapidly_).

These are but few things among many! for 'scutcheons, scarecrows, proclamations, the bird in a cage, the target for fools' wit, _hic jacet_ tablets (that is, lying ones), the King's Head and the Queen's Arms, ropes of onions, dried herbs, smoked fish, holly boughs, hall lanthorns, framed piety texts, and adored frights of family portraits, all hang! Likewise corkscrews, cat-skins, glittering trophies, sausage links, shining icicles, the crucifix, and the skeleton in chains. There, we all swing, my masters! Tut! hanging's a high Act of Parliament privilege!--a Star-Chamber Garter-right!

MIDDLETON (_to_ Heywood _laughingly_).

The devil's seed germinates with reptile rapidity, and blossoms and fructifies in the vinous fallows of this bully's brain!

JACCONOT.

I tell thee what----(_looking off_) another time!

_Exit_ JACCONOT _hastily._

HEYWOOD.

I breathe fresh air!

MIDDLETON.

Look!--said I not so? See whom 'tis he meets;
And with a lounging, loose, familiar air,
Cocking his cap and setting his hand on's hip,
Salutes with such free language as his action
And attitude explain!

HEYWOOD.

I grieve for Marlowe:
The more, since 'tis as certain he must have
Full course of passion, as that its object's full
Of most unworthy elements.

MIDDLETON.

Unworthy,
Indeed, of such a form, if all be base.
But Nature, methinks, doth seldom so belie
The inward by the outward; seldom frame
A cheat so finish'd to ensnare the senses,
And break our faith in all substantial truth. _Exeunt._

_Enter_ CECILIA, _followed by_ JACCONOT.

JACCONOT.

Well, well, Mistress St. Cecil; the money is all well enough--I object nothing to the money.

CECILIA.

Then, go your ways.

JACCONOT.

My ways are your ways--a murrain on your beauties!--has your brain shot forth skylarks as your eyes do sparks?

CECILIA.

Go!--here is my purse.

JACCONOT.

I'll no more of't!--I have a mind to fling back what thou'st already given me for my services.

CECILIA.

Master Jacconot, I would have no further services from thee. If thou art not yet satisfied, fetch the weight and scales, and I will cast my gold into it, and my dross besides--so shall I be doubly relieved.

JACCONOT.

I say again--and the devil bear me fierce witness!--it is not gold I want, but rightful favour; not silver, but sweet civility; not dross, but the due respect to my non-pareil value! Bethink thee, Cecil--bethink thee of many things! Ay! am not I the true gallant of my time? the great Glow-worm and Will-o'-the-wisp--the life, the fortune, and the favourite of the brightest among ye!

CECILIA.

Away!

JACCONOT.

Whither?

CECILIA.

Anywhere, so it be distant.

JACCONOT.

What mean'st by discarding me, and why is it? 'Slud! is this the right sort of return for all my skilful activities, my adroit fascinations of young lords in drink, my tricks at dice, cards, and dagger-play, not to speak too loudly of bets on bear-baits, soap-bubbles, and Shrovetide cocks; or my lies about your beauty and temper? Have I not brought dukes and earls and reverend seniors, on tip-toe, and softly whispering for fear of "the world," right under the balcony of your window?--O, don't beat the dust with your fine foot! These be good services, I think!

CECILIA (_half aside_).

Alas! alas!--the world sees us only as bright, though baleful stars, little knowing our painful punishments in the dark--our anguish in secret.

JACCONOT.

Are you thinking of me?

CECILIA.

Go!

JACCONOT.

Go!--a death's-head crown your pillow! May you dream of love, and wake and see that!

CECILIA.

I had rather see't than you.

JACCONOT.

What's i' the wind,--nobleman, or gentleman, or a brain fancy--am not I at hand? Are you mad?

CECILIA (_overcome_).

I'd gladly believe I have been so.

JACCONOT.

Good. I'm content you see me aright once more, and acknowledge yourself wrong.

CECILIA (_half aside, and tearfully_).

O, wrong indeed--very wrong--to my better nature--my better nature.

JACCONOT.

And to me, too! Bethink thee, I say, when last year, after the dance at Hampton, thou wert enraged against the noble that slighted thee; and, flushed with wine, thou took'st me by the ear, and mad'st me hand thee into thy coach, and get in beside thee, with a drawn sword in my hand and a dripping trencher on my head, singing such songs, until----

CECILIA.

Earthworms and stone walls!

JACCONOT.

Hey! what of them?

CECILIA.

I would that as the corporal Past they cover,
They would, at earnest bidding of the will,
Entomb in walls of darkness and devour
The hated retrospections of the mind.

JACCONOT (_aside_).

Oho!--the lamps and saw-dust!--Here's foul play
And mischief in the market. Preaching varlet!
I'll find him out--I'll dog him! _Exit_.

CECILIA.

Self disgust
Gnaws at the root of being, and doth hang
A heavy sickness on the beams of day,
Making the atmosphere, which should exalt
Our contemplations, press us down to earth,
As though our breath had made it thick with plague.
Cursed! accursed be the freaks of Nature,
That mar us from ourselves, and make our acts
The scorn and loathing of our afterthoughts--
The finger mark of Conscience, who, most treacherous,
Wakes to accuse, but slumber'd o'er the sin.

_Exit._

SCENE III.

_A Room in the Triple Tun, Blackfriars._

MARLOWE, MIDDLETON, _and_ GENTLEMEN.

GENTLEMAN.

I do rejoice to find myself among
The choicest spirits of the age: health, sirs!
I would commend your fame to future years,
But that I know ere this ye must be old
In the conviction, and that ye full oft
With sure posterity have shaken hands
Over the unstable bridge of present time.

MARLOWE.

Not so: we write from the full heart within,
And leave posterity to find her own.
Health, sir!--your good deeds laurel you in heaven.

MIDDLETON.

'Twere best men left their fame to chance and fashion,
As birds bequeath their eggs to the sun's hatching,
Since Genius can make no will.

MARLOWE.

Troth, can it!
But for the consequences of the deed,
What fires of blind fatality may catch them!
Say, you do love a woman--do adore her--
You may embalm the memory of her worth
And chronicle her beauty to all time,
In words whereat great Jove himself might flush,
And feel Olympus tremble at his thoughts;
Yet where is your security? Some clerk
Wanting a foolscap, or some boy a kite,
Some housewife fuel, or some sportsman wadding
To wrap a ball (which hits the poet's brain
By merest accident) seizes your record,
And to the wind thus scatters all your will,
Or, rather, your will's object. Thus, our pride
Swings like a planet by a single hair,
Obedient to God's breath. More wine! more wine!
I preach--and I grow melancholy--wine!

_Enter_ DRAWER _with a tankard_.

A GENTLEMAN (_rising_).

We're wending homeward--gentlemen, good night!

MARLOWE.

Not yet--not yet--the night has scarce begun--
Nay, Master Heywood--Middleton, you'll stay!
Bright skies to those who go--high thoughts go with ye,
And constant youth!

GENTLEMEN.

We thank you, sir--good night! _Exeunt_ GENTLEMEN.

HEYWOOD.

Let's follow--'tis near morning.

MARLOWE.

Do not go.
I'm ill at ease, touching a certain matter
I've taken to heart--don't speak of't--and besides
I have a sort of horror of my bed.
Last night a squadron charged me in a dream,
With Isis and Osiris at the flanks,
Towering and waving their colossal arms,
While in the van a fiery chariot roll'd,
Wherein a woman stood--I knew her well--
Who seem'd but newly risen from the grave!

She whirl'd a javelin at me, and methought
I woke; when, slowly at the foot o' the bed
The mist-like curtains parted, and upon me
Did learned Faustus look! He shook his head
With grave reproof, but more of sympathy,
As though his past humanity came o'er him--
Then went away with a low, gushing sigh,
That startled his own death-cold breast, and seem'd
As from a marble urn where passion's ashes
Their sleepless vigil keep. Well--perhaps they do.
(_after a pause_)
Lived he not greatly? Think what was his power!
All knowledge at his beck--the very Devil
His common slave. And, O, brought he not back,
Through the thick-million'd catacombs of ages,
Helen's unsullied loveliness to his arms?

MIDDLETON.

So--let us have more wine, then!

HEYWOOD.

Spirit enough
Springs from thee, Master Marlowe--what need more.

MARLOWE.

Drawer! lift up thy leaden poppy-head!
Up man!--where art? The night seems wondrous hot!

(MARLOWE _throws open a side window that reaches
down to the floor, and stands there, looking out._)

HEYWOOD (_to_ MIDDLETON).

The air flows in upon his heated face,
And he grows pale with looking at the stars;
Thinking the while of many things in heaven.

MIDDLETON.

And some one on the earth--as fair to him--
For, lo you!--is't not she?

(_Pointing towards the open window_.)

HEYWOOD.

The lady, folded
In the long mantle, coming down the street?

MIDDLETON.

Let be; we cannot help him.

(HEYWOOD _and_ MIDDLETON _retire apart_--CECILIA
_is passing by the open window_.)

MARLOWE.

Stay awhile!--
One moment stay!

CECILIA (_pausing_).

That is not much to ask.

(_She steps in through the window_.)

MARLOWE.

Nor much for you to grant; but O, to me
That moment is a circle without bounds,--
Because I see no end to my delight!

CECILIA.

O, sir, you make me very sad at heart;
Let's speak no more of this. I am on my way
To walk beside the river.

MARLOWE.

May I come?

CECILIA.

Ah, no; I'll go alone.

MARLOWE.

'Tis dark and dismal;
Nor do I deem it safe!

CECILIA.

What can harm _me_?
If not above, at least I am beyond
All common dangers. No, you shall not come.
I have some questions I would ask myself;
And in the sullen, melancholy flow
O' the unromantic Thames, that has been witness
Of many tragical realities,
Bare of adornment as its cold stone stairs,
I may find sympathy, if not response.

MARLOWE.

You find both here. I know thy real life;
We do not see the truth--or, O, how little!
Pure light sometimes through painted windows streams;
And, when all's dark around thee, thou art fair!
Thou bear'st within an ever-burning lamp,
To me more sacred than a vestal's shrine;
For she may be of heartless chastity,
False in all else, and proud of her poor ice,
As though 'twere fire suppress'd; but thou art good
For goodness' sake;--true-hearted, lovable,
For truth and honour's sake; and such a woman,
That man who wins, the gods themselves may envy.

CECILIA (_going_).

Considering all things, this is bitter sweet.

MARLOWE.

And I may come? (_following her_)

CECILIA (_firmly_).

You shall not.

MARLOWE.

I obey you.

CECILIA (_tenderly_).

Ah! Kit Marlowe,--
You think too much of me--and of yourself
Too little!

MARLOWE.

Then I may----(_advancing_)

CECILIA (_firmly_).

No--no!

MARLOWE.

Wilt promise
To see me for one "good night" ere you sleep?

CECILIA.

On my way home I will.

(_She turns to look at him--then steps through the
Window--Exit_.)

MARLOWE.

Be sure--be sure!

(HEYWOOD _and_ MIDDLETON _approach_.)

HEYWOOD.

Now, Marlowe!--you desert us!

MARLOWE.

Say not so;--
Or, saying so, add--that I have lost myself!
Nay, but I _have_; yonder I go in the dark!
(_pointing after_ CECILIA)

_Street Music._--JACCONOT, _singing outside._

Ram out the link, boys; ho, boys![685]
There's daylight in the sky!
While the trenchers strew the floor,
And the worn-out grey beards snore,
Jolly throats continue dry!
Ram out the link, boys, &c.

MIDDLETON.

What voice is that?

MARLOWE (_through his teeth_).

From one of the hells.

HEYWOOD.

The roystering singer approaches.

_Enter_ JACCONOT, _with a full tankard._

JACCONOT.

Ever awake and shining, my masters! and here am I, your twin lustre, always ready to herald and anoint your pleasures, like a true Master of the Revels. I ha' just stepped over the drawer's body, laid nose and heels together on the door-mat, asleep, and here's wherewith to continue the glory!

MIDDLETON.

We need not your help.

HEYWOOD.

We thank you, Jack-o'-night: we would be alone.

JACCONOT.

What say _you_, Master Marlowe? you look as grim as a sign-painters' first sketch on a tavern bill, after his ninth tankard.

MIDDLETON.

Cease your death-rattle, night-hawk!

MARLOWE.

That's well said.

JACCONOT.

Is it? So 'tis my gallants--a night-bird like yourselves, am I.

MARLOWE.

Beast!--we know you.

JACCONOT.

Your merry health, Master Kit Marlowe! I'll bring a loud pair of palms to cheer your soul the next time you strut in red paint with a wooden weapon at your thigh.

MARLOWE.

Who sent for _you_, dorr-hawk?--go!

JACCONOT.

Go! Aha!--I remember the word--same tone, same gesture--or as like as the two profiles of a monkey, or as two squeaks for one pinch. Go!--not I--here's to all your healths! One pull more! There, I've done--take it, Master Marlowe; and pledge me as the true knight of London's rarest beauties!

MARLOWE.

I will! (_Dashes the tankard at his head_.)

JACCONOT (_stooping quickly_).

A miss, 'fore-gad!--the wall has got it! See where it trickles down like the long robe of some dainty fair one! And look you here--and there again, look you!--what make you of the picture he hath presented?

MARLOWE (_staggers as he stares at the wall_).

O subtle Nature! who hath so compounded
Our senses, playing into each other's wheels,
That feeling oft acts substitute for sight,
As sight becomes obedient to the thought--
How canst thou place such wonders at the mercy
Of every wretch that crawls? I feel--I see!

(_Street Music as before, but farther off._)

JACCONOT (_singing_).

Ram out the link, boys; ho, boys!
The blear-eyed morning's here;
Let us wander through the streets,
And kiss whoe'er one meets;
St. Cecil is my dear!
Ram out the link, boys, &c.

MARLOWE (_drawing_).

Lightning come up from hell and strangle thee!

MIDDLETON _and_ HEYWOOD.

Nay, Marlowe! Marlowe! (_they hold him back_).

MIDDLETON (_to_ JACCONOT).

Away, thou bestial villain!

JACCONOT (_singing at_ MARLOWE).

St. Cecil is my dear!

MARLOWE (_furiously_).

Blast! blast and scatter
Thy body to ashes! Off! I'll have his ghost!

(_rushes at_ JACCONOT--_they fight--Marlowe disarms him; but_ JACCONOT
_wrests_ MARLOWE'S _own sword from his hand, and stabs him_--MARLOWE
_falls_)

MIDDLETON.

See! see!

MARLOWE (_clasping his forehead_).

Who's down?--answer me, friends--is't I?--
Or in the maze of some delirious trance,
Some realm unknown, or passion newly born--
Ne'er felt before--am I transported thus?
My fingers paddle, too, in blood--is't mine?

JACCONOT.

O, content you, Master Marplot--it's you that's down, drunk or sober; and that's your own blood on your fingers, running from a three-inch groove in your ribs for the devil's imps to slide into you. Ugh! cry gramercy! for it's all over with your rhyming!

HEYWOOD.

O, heartless mischief!

MIDDLETON.

Hence, thou rabid cur!

MARLOWE.

What demon in the air with unseen arm
Hath turn'd my unchain'd fury against myself?
Recoiling dragon! thy resistless force
Scatters thy mortal master in his pride,
To teach him, with self-knowledge, to fear thee.
Forgetful of all corporal conditions,
My passion hath destroy'd me!

JACCONOT.

No such matter; it was _my_ doing. You shouldn't ha' ran at me in that fashion with a real sword--I thought it had been one o' your sham ones.

MIDDLETON.

Away!

HEYWOOD.

See! his face changes--lift him up!
(_they raise and support him_)
Here--place your hand upon his side--here, here--
Close over mine, and staunch the flowing wound!

MARLOWE (_delirious_.)

Bright is the day--the air with glory teems--
And eagles wanton in the smile of Jove:
Can these things be, and Marlowe live no more!
O Heywood! Heywood! I had a world of hopes
About that woman--now in my heart they rise
Confused, as flames from my life's coloured map,
That burns until with wrinkling agony
Its ashes flatten, separate, and drift
Through gusty darkness. Hold me fast by the arm!
A little aid will save me:--See! she's here!
I clasp thy form--I feel thy breath, my love--
And know thee for a sweet saint come to save me!
Save!--is it death I feel--it cannot be death?

JACCONOT (_half aside_.)

Marry, but it can!--or else your sword's a foolish dog that dar'n't bite his owner.

MARLOWE.

O friends--dear friends--this is a sorry end--
A most unworthy end! To think--O God!--
To think that I should fall by the hand of one
Whose office, like his nature, is all baseness,
Gives Death ten thousand stings, and to the Grave
A damning victory! Fame sinks with life!
A galling--shameful--ignominious end! (_sinks down_).
O mighty heart! O full and orbed heart,
Flee to thy kindred sun, rolling on high!
Or let the hoary and eternal sea
Sweep me away, and swallow body and soul!

JACCONOT.

There'll be no "encore" to either, I wot; for thou'st led an ill life, Master Marlowe; and so the sweet Saint thou spok'st of, will remain my fair game--behind the scenes.

MARLOWE.

Liar! slave! sla---- Kind Master Heywood,
You will not see me die thus!--thus by the hand
And maddening tongue of such a beast as that!
Haste, if you love me--fetch a leech to help me--
Here--Middleton--sweet friend--a bandage here--
I cannot die by such a hand--I will not--
I say I will not die by that vile hand!
Go bring Cecilia to me--bring the leech--
Close--close this wound--you know I did it myself--
Bring sweet Cecilia--haste--haste--instantly--
Bring life and time--bring heaven!--Oh, I am dying!--
Some water--stay beside me--maddening death,
By such a hand! O villain! from the grave
I constantly will rise--to curse! curse! curse thee!
(_Rises_--_and falls dead_.)

MIDDLETON.

Terrible end!

HEYWOOD.

O God!--he is quite gone!

JACCONOT (_aghast_.)

'Twas dreadful--'twas! Christ help us! and lull him to sleep in's grave. I stand up for mine own nature none the less. (_Voices without_) What noise is that?

_Enter_ OFFICERS.

CHIEF OFFICER.

This is our man--ha! murder has been here! You are our prisoner--the gallows waits you!

JACCONOT.

What have I done to be hung up like a miracle? The hemp's not sown nor the ladder-wood grown, that shall help fools to finish me! He did it himself! He said so with his last words!--there stands his friends and brother players--put them to their Testament if he said not he did it himself?

CHIEF OFFICER.

Who is it lies here?--methinks that I should know him,
But for the fierce distortion of his face!

MIDDLETON.

He who erewhile wrote with a brand of fire,
Now, in his passionate blood, floats tow'rds the grave!
The present time is ever ignorant--
We lack clear vision in our self-love's maze;
But Marlowe in the future will stand great,
Whom this--the lowest caitiff in the world--
A nothing, save in grossness, hath destroy'd.

JACCONOT.