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