_Exit._

MARLOWE.

She's gone!--How leafless is my life!--My strength Seems melted--my breast vacant--and in my brain I hear the sound of a retiring sea.

_Exit._

SCENE II.

_Gravel Lane; Bankside._

_Enter_ HEYWOOD _and_ MIDDLETON.

MIDDLETON.

And yet it may end well, after his fit is over.

HEYWOOD.

But he is earnest in it.

MIDDLETON.

'Tis his habit; a little thunder clears the atmosphere. At present he is spell-bound, and smouldereth in a hot cloud of pa.s.sion; but when he once makes his way, he will soon disperse his free spirit abroad over the inspired heavens.

HEYWOOD.

I fear me she will sow quick seed of feverish fancies in his mind that may go near to drive him mad.

MIDDLETON.

How so? He knoweth her for what she is, as well as for what she was;--the high-spirited and once virtuous wife of the drunkard Bengough.

You remember him?

HEYWOOD.

I have seen him i' the mire. 'Twas his accustomed bed o' nights--and morning, too--many a time. He preferred _that_ to the angel he left at home. Some men do. 'Tis a sorrow to think upon.

MIDDLETON.

And one that tears cannot wash! Master Marlowe hath too deep a reading i' the books of nature to nail his heart upon a gilded weatherc.o.c.k. He is only desperate after the fashion of a pearl diver. When he hath enough he will desist--breathe freely, polish the sh.e.l.ls, and build grottoes.

HEYWOOD.

Nay, he persisteth in _not_ knowing her for a courtesan--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.

MIDDLETON.

This is his pa.s.sionate aggravation or self will: he _must_ know it.

HEYWOOD.

'Tis my belief; but her beauty blinds him with its beams, and drives his exiled reason into darkness.

MIDDLETON.

Here comes one that could enlighten his perception, methinks.

HEYWOOD.

Who's he? Jack-o'-night, the tavern pander and swashbuckler.

_Enter_ JACCONOT.

JACCONOT.

Save ye, my masters; l.u.s.ty 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!

MIDDLETON.

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.

JACCONOT.

Well said, Master Middleton--a merry devil and a long-lived one run monkey-wise up your back-bone! May your days be as happy as they're sober, and your nights full of applause! May no brawling mob pelt you, or your friends, when throned, nor hoot down your plays when your soul's pinned like a c.o.c.kchafer 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?

MIDDLETON.

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. The phases of thy villany are so numerous that, were they embodied they would break down the fatal tree which is thine inheritance, and cause a lack of cords for the Thames shipping!

JACCONOT.

Don't choke me with compliments!

HEYWOOD (_to_ MIDDLETON).

He seems right proud of this multiplied idea of his latter end.

JACCONOT.

Ay; hanging's of high antiquity, and, thereto, of broad modern repute.

The flag, the sign, the fruit, the felon, and other high and mighty game, all hang; though the sons of ink and sawdust try to stand apart, smelling civet, as one should say,--faugh! Jewelled caps, ermined cloaks, powdered wigs, church bells, _bona-roba_ bed-gowns, gilded bridles, spurs, shields, swords, harness, holy relics, and salted hogs, all hang in glory! Pictures, too, of rare value! Also music's ministrants,--the lute, the horn, the fiddle, the pipe, the gong, the viol, the salt-box, the tambourine and the triangle, make a dead-wall dream of festive harmonies!

MIDDLETON.

Infernal discords, thou would'st say!