t'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, wil