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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
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