e 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 w