.

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 tha