ife
From your intemperate breach of faith to me
Fetch their loathed essence; thinke but on the love,
The holy love I bore you, that we two
--Had you bin constant--might have taught the wor[ld]
Affections primitive purenes; when, from
Your abrogation of it, Bonvills death,
Your daughter['s] losse have luc[k]lessly insu'd.
The streame that, like a Crocodile, did weepe
Ore them whom with an over ravenous kisse
Its moyst lips stifled, will record your fault
In watery characters as lastingly
As iff twere cut in marble. Heaven, forgive you;
Ile pray for you; repent.

[_Exeunt Thorowgood and Grimes_.

_Grimes_. O, my deare Master!

_Lady_. Repent! should I but spend
The weakest accent of my breath in sighes
Or vaine compunction, I should feare I sinnd
Against my will, then which I doe confes
Noe other diety. Passions[120] doe surround
My intellectual powers; only my heart,
Like to a Rocky Island, does advance
Above the foming violence of the waves
Its unmovd head, bids me my fate outdare.
Ills sure prevention is a swift despaire.

[_Exit_.

([SCENE] 2.)

_Enter Alexander and Young Marlowe_.

_Alex_. Thinke, sir, to whome the Iniury was don,--go to--your Lady
Mother, a vertuous lady, I say and I sayt agen, a very vertuous lady.
Had I but youth and strength as you have, in what cause should I sooner
hazard both then in this?

_Y. M_. Murder, my friend!

_Alex_. Noe, tis doing sacrifice to slaunderd goodnes.

_Y. M_. Rob my beloved Sister of a husband!

_Alex_. Yes, to redeeme to your mother her lost honour.

_Y. M_. Art not a Divell?

_Alex_. Ha!

_Y. M_. Thy breath has blasted me.

_Alex_. I must confes indeed I have eaten garlicke.

_Y. M_. All pious thoughts that lately fild this spheare
Are scatterd with the winds that issu'd from thee,
Which, like the infectious yawning of a hill,
Belching forth death inevitable,
Has distroyd freindship and nature in me.
Thou canst not poyson worse: I can feed now,
Feed and nere burst with mallice. Sing, Syren, sing
And swell me with revenge sweet as the straines
Falls from the _Thrasian_ lyre; charme each sence
With musick of Revenge, let Innocence
In softest tunes like the expiring Swann
Dy singing her owne Epitaph.

_Alex_. What meane you, sir? are you mad? goe to and goe to; you doe not
use me well; I say and I say, you do not. Have I this for my love to you
and your good Mother? Why, I might