 | The Death of Marlowe |  |
SCENE II.
Enter Heywood and Middleton.Mid.
And yet it may end well, after his fit is over.
Hey.
But he is earnest in it.
Mid.
'Tis his habit: a little thunder clears the atmosphere.
At present he is spell-bound, and smouldereth in a hot cloud
again disperse his free spirit abroad over the inspired heavens.
Hey.
I fear me she will sow a train of feverish fancies in his
mind that may go near to drive him mad.
Mid.
How so?—he knoweth her for a courtezan, and Master
Marlowe hath too deep a reading i'the books of nature to
nail his heart upon a gilded weather-cock. He is only desperate
after the fashion of a pearl-diver. When he hath enough he
will desist—breathe freely, polish the shells, and build grottoes.
Hey.
Nay, he persisteth in not knowing her for a courtezan
—talks of her purity in burning words, that seem to glow and
enhance his love from his convictions of her virtue; then suddenly
falls into silent abstraction, looking like a man whose
eyes are filled with visions of paradise. No pains takes she to
deceive him; for he supersedes the chance by deceiving himself
beyond measure. He either listens not at all to intimation,
or insists the contrary.
Mid.
This is his passionate aggravation or self-will: he
must know it.
Hey.
'Tis my belief; but her beauty blinds him with
its beams, and drives his exiled reason into darkness.
Mid.
Here comes one that could enlighten his perception,
methinks.
Hey.
Who's he? Oh, Jack-o'-night, the tavern-pimp.
Enter Jacconot.
Jac.
Save ye, my masters; lusty thoughts go with ye, and
a jovial full cup wait on your steps: so shall your blood rise,
and honest women pledge ye in their dreams!
Mid.
Your weighty-pursed knowledge of women, balanced
against your squinting knowledge of honesty, Master
Jack-o'-night, would come down to earth, methinks, as rapid
as a fall from a gallows-tree.
Jac.
Well said, Master Middleton—a merry devil and a
long-lived one run monkey-wise up your back-bone! May
full of applause! May no brawling mob pelt you when
throned, nor hoot down your plays when your soul's pinned
like a cock-chafer on public opinion! May no learned or
unlearned calf write against your knowledge and wit, and no
brother paper-stainer pilfer your pages, and then call you a
general thief! Am I the only rogue and vagabond in the
world?
Mid.
I'faith, not: nay, an' thou wert, there would be no
lack of them i'the next generation. Thou might'st be the
father of the race, being now the bodily type of it.
Jac.
That, for your type!
[Exit Jacconot, hastily.
Mid.
Look!—said I not so? See whom 'tis he meets;
And with a lounging, loose, familiar air,
Cocking his cap, and setting his hand on's hip,
Salutes with such free language as his action
And attitude explain!
Hey.
I grieve for Marlowe:
The more, since 'tis as certain he must have
Full course of passion, as that its object's full
Of most unworthy elements.
Mid.
Unworthy,
Indeed, of such a form, if all be base.
Nature, methinks, doth seldom so belie
The inward by the outward; seldom frame
A cheat so finish'd to ensnare the senses,
And break our faith in all substantial truth.
[Exeunt.
Enter Cecilia, followed by Jacconot.
Jac.
Well, well, Mistress St Cecil; the money is all well
enough—I object nothing to the money.
Cec.
Then, go your ways.
Jac.
My ways are your ways—a murrain on your beauties!
—has your brain shot forth sky-larks as your eyes do sparks.
Go!—here is my purse.
Jac.
I'll no more of't!—I have a mind to fling back
what thou'st already given me for my services.
Cec.
Master Jacconot, I would have no further services
from thee. If thou art not yet satisfied, fetch the weight and
scales, and I will cast my gold into it, and my dross besides—
so shall I be doubly relieved.
Jac.
I say again, and the devil bear me fierce witness! it is
not gold I want, but rightful favour; not silver, but sweet
civility; not dross, but due respect to my nonpareil value!
Bethink thee, Cecil—bethink thee of many things! Ay! am
not I the true gallant of my time? the great Glow-worm and
Will-o'-the-whisp—the life, the fortune, and the favorite of the
brightest among ye!
Cec.
Go!
Jac.
Go!—a death's-head crown your pillow! May you
dream of love, and wake and see that!
Cec.
I had rather see't than you.
Jac.
What's i'the wind?—nobleman, or gentleman, or a
brain-fancy—am not I at hand? Are you mad?
Cec.
I'd gladly believe I have been so.
Jac.
Good. I'm content you see me aright once more, and
acknowledge yourself wrong. And to me too! Bethink
thee, I say, when last year after the dance at Hampton thou
wert enraged against the noble that slighted thee; and, flushed
with wine, thou took'st me by the ear, and mad'st me hand
thee into thy coach, and get in beside thee, with a drawn
sword in my hand and a dripping trencher on my head,
singing such songs, until—
Cec.
Earth-worms and stone walls!
Jac.
Hey! what of them?
Cec.
I would that as the corporal Past they cover,
They could, at earnest bidding of the will,
Entomb in walls of darkness and devour
The hated retrospections of the mind.
(aside)
Oho!—the lamps and saw-dust!—Here's foul play
And mischief in the market. Preaching varlet!
I'll find him out.
[Exit.
Cec.
Self-disgust
Gnaws at the roots of being, and doth hang
A heavy sickness on the beams of day,
Making the atmosphere, which should exalt
Our contemplations, press us down to earth,
As though our breath had made it thick with plague.
Cursed! accursed be the freaks of Nature,
That mar us from ourselves, and make our acts
The scorn and loathing of our after-thoughts—
The finger-mark of Conscience, who, most treacherous,
Wakes to accuse, but slumber'd o'er the sin.
[Exit.
| The Death of Marlowe | |