l 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.

"Caitiff" back again in your throat! and "gross nothing" to boot--may
you have it to live upon for a month, and die mad and starving! Would'st
swear my life away so lightly? Tut! who was he? I could always find the
soundings of a quart tankard, or empty a pasty in half his time, and
swear as rare oaths between whiles--who was he? I too ha' write my odes
and Pindar jigs with the twinkling of a bedpost, to the sound of the
harp and hurdygurdy, while Capricornus wa