The Works of Christopher Marlowe, Vol. 3 (of 3)

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 passion; 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 weathercock. 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.

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 passionate 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; 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!

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 cockchafer 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!

Jacconot (rapidly).

These are but few things among many! for 'scutcheons, scarecrows, proclamations, the bird in a cage, the target for fools' wit, hic jacet tablets (that is, lying ones), the King's Head and the Queen's Arms, ropes of onions, dried herbs, smoked fish, holly boughs, hall lanthorns, framed piety texts, and adored frights of family portraits, all hang! Likewise corkscrews, cat-skins, glittering trophies, sausage links, shining icicles, the crucifix, and the skeleton in chains. There, we all swing, my masters! Tut! hanging's a high Act of Parliament privilege!—a Star-Chamber Garter-right!

Middleton (to Heywood laughingly).

The devil's seed germinates with reptile rapidity, and blossoms and fructifies in the vinous fallows of this bully's brain!

Jacconot

I tell thee what–(looking off) another time!

Exit Jacconot hastily.

Heywood

 
I breathe fresh air!
 

Middleton

 
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!
 

Heywood

 
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.
 

Middleton

 
Unworthy,
Indeed, of such a form, if all be base.
But 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.

Jacconot

Well, well, Mistress St. Cecil; the money is all well enough—I object nothing to the money.

Cecilia

Then, go your ways.

Jacconot

My ways are your ways—a murrain on your beauties!—has your brain shot forth skylarks as your eyes do sparks?

Cecilia

Go!—here is my purse.

Jacconot

I'll no more of't!—I have a mind to fling back what thou'st already given me for my services.

Cecilia

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.

Jacconot

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 the due respect to my non-pareil 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-wisp—the life, the fortune, and the favourite of the brightest among ye!

Cecilia

Away!

Jacconot

Whither?

Cecilia

Anywhere, so it be distant.

Jacconot

What mean'st by discarding me, and why is it? 'Slud! is this the right sort of return for all my skilful activities, my adroit fascinations of young lords in drink, my tricks at dice, cards, and dagger-play, not to speak too loudly of bets on bear-baits, soap-bubbles, and Shrovetide cocks; or my lies about your beauty and temper? Have I not brought dukes and earls and reverend seniors, on tip-toe, and softly whispering for fear of "the world," right under the balcony of your window?—O, don't beat the dust with your fine foot! These be good services, I think!

Cecilia (half aside).

 

Alas! alas!—the world sees us only as bright, though baleful stars, little knowing our painful punishments in the dark—our anguish in secret.

Jacconot

Are you thinking of me?

Cecilia

Go!

Jacconot

Go!—a death's-head crown your pillow! May you dream of love, and wake and see that!

Cecilia

I had rather see't than you.

Jacconot

What's i' the wind,—nobleman, or gentleman, or a brain fancy—am not I at hand? Are you mad?

Cecilia (overcome).

I'd gladly believe I have been so.

Jacconot

Good. I'm content you see me aright once more, and acknowledge yourself wrong.

Cecilia (half aside, and tearfully).

O, wrong indeed—very wrong—to my better nature—my better nature.

Jacconot

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–

Cecilia

Earthworms and stone walls!

Jacconot

Hey! what of them?

Cecilia

 
I would that as the corporal Past they cover,
They would, at earnest bidding of the will,
Entomb in walls of darkness and devour
The hated retrospections of the mind.
 

Jacconot (aside).

 
Oho!—the lamps and saw-dust!—Here's foul play
And mischief in the market. Preaching varlet!
I'll find him out—I'll dog him! Exit.
 

Cecilia

 
Self disgust
Gnaws at the root 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 afterthoughts—
The finger mark of Conscience, who, most treacherous,
Wakes to accuse, but slumber'd o'er the sin.
 

Exit

SCENE III

A Room in the Triple Tun, Blackfriars

Marlowe, Middleton, and Gentlemen.

Gentleman

 
I do rejoice to find myself among
The choicest spirits of the age: health, sirs!
I would commend your fame to future years,
But that I know ere this ye must be old
In the conviction, and that ye full oft
With sure posterity have shaken hands
Over the unstable bridge of present time.
 

Marlowe

 
Not so: we write from the full heart within,
And leave posterity to find her own.
Health, sir!—your good deeds laurel you in heaven.
 

Middleton

 
'Twere best men left their fame to chance and fashion,
As birds bequeath their eggs to the sun's hatching,
Since Genius can make no will.
 

Marlowe

 
Troth, can it!
But for the consequences of the deed,
What fires of blind fatality may catch them!
Say, you do love a woman—do adore her—
You may embalm the memory of her worth
And chronicle her beauty to all time,
In words whereat great Jove himself might flush,
And feel Olympus tremble at his thoughts;
Yet where is your security? Some clerk
Wanting a foolscap, or some boy a kite,
Some housewife fuel, or some sportsman wadding
To wrap a ball (which hits the poet's brain
By merest accident) seizes your record,
And to the wind thus scatters all your will,
Or, rather, your will's object. Thus, our pride
Swings like a planet by a single hair,
Obedient to God's breath. More wine! more wine!
I preach—and I grow melancholy—wine!
 

Enter Drawer with a tankard.

A Gentleman (rising).

 
We're wending homeward—gentlemen, good night!
 

Marlowe

 
Not yet—not yet—the night has scarce begun—
Nay, Master Heywood—Middleton, you'll stay!
Bright skies to those who go—high thoughts go with ye,
And constant youth!
 

Gentlemen

 
We thank you, sir—good night! Exeunt Gentlemen.
 

Heywood

 
Let's follow—'tis near morning.
 

Marlowe

 
Do not go.
I'm ill at ease, touching a certain matter
I've taken to heart—don't speak of't—and besides
I have a sort of horror of my bed.
Last night a squadron charged me in a dream,
With Isis and Osiris at the flanks,
Towering and waving their colossal arms,
While in the van a fiery chariot roll'd,
Wherein a woman stood—I knew her well—
Who seem'd but newly risen from the grave!
She whirl'd a javelin at me, and methought
I woke; when, slowly at the foot o' the bed
The mist-like curtains parted, and upon me
Did learned Faustus look! He shook his head
With grave reproof, but more of sympathy,
As though his past humanity came o'er him—
Then went away with a low, gushing sigh,
That startled his own death-cold breast, and seem'd
As from a marble urn where passion's ashes
Their sleepless vigil keep. Well—perhaps they do.
(after a pause)
Lived he not greatly? Think what was his power!
All knowledge at his beck—the very Devil
His common slave. And, O, brought he not back,
Through the thick-million'd catacombs of ages,
Helen's unsullied loveliness to his arms?
 

Middleton

 
So—let us have more wine, then!
 

Heywood

 
Spirit enough
Springs from thee, Master Marlowe—what need more.
 

Marlowe

 
Drawer! lift up thy leaden poppy-head!
Up man!—where art? The night seems wondrous hot!
 

(Marlowe throws open a side window that reaches down to the floor, and stands there, looking out.)

Heywood (to Middleton).

 
The air flows in upon his heated face,
And he grows pale with looking at the stars;
Thinking the while of many things in heaven.
 

Middleton

 
And some one on the earth—as fair to him—
For, lo you!—is't not she?
 

(Pointing towards the open window.)

Heywood

 
The lady, folded
In the long mantle, coming down the street?
 

Middleton

 
Let be; we cannot help him.
 

(Heywood and Middleton retire apart—Cecilia is passing by the open window.)

Marlowe

 
Stay awhile!—
One moment stay!
 

Cecilia (pausing).

 
That is not much to ask.
 

(She steps in through the window.)

Marlowe

 
Nor much for you to grant; but O, to me
That moment is a circle without bounds,—
Because I see no end to my delight!
 

Cecilia

 
O, sir, you make me very sad at heart;
Let's speak no more of this. I am on my way
To walk beside the river.
 

Marlowe

 
May I come?
 

Cecilia

 
Ah, no; I'll go alone.
 

Marlowe

 
'Tis dark and dismal;
Nor do I deem it safe!
 

Cecilia

 
What can harm me?
If not above, at least I am beyond
All common dangers. No, you shall not come.
I have some questions I would ask myself;
And in the sullen, melancholy flow
O' the unromantic Thames, that has been witness
Of many tragical realities,
Bare of adornment as its cold stone stairs,
I may find sympathy, if not response.
 

Marlowe

 
You find both here. I know thy real life;
We do not see the truth—or, O, how little!
Pure light sometimes through painted windows streams;
And, when all's dark around thee, thou art fair!
Thou bear'st within an ever-burning lamp,
To me more sacred than a vestal's shrine;
For she may be of heartless chastity,
False in all else, and proud of her poor ice,
As though 'twere fire suppress'd; but thou art good
For goodness' sake;—true-hearted, lovable,
For truth and honour's sake; and such a woman,
That man who wins, the gods themselves may envy.
 

Cecilia (going).

 
Considering all things, this is bitter sweet.
 

Marlowe

 
And I may come? (following her)
 

Cecilia (firmly).

 
You shall not.
 

Marlowe

 
I obey you.
 

Cecilia (tenderly).

 
Ah! Kit Marlowe,—
You think too much of me—and of yourself
Too little!
 

Marlowe

 
Then I may–(advancing)
 

Cecilia (firmly).

 
No—no!
 

Marlowe

 
Wilt promise
To see me for one "good night" ere you sleep?
 

Cecilia

 
On my way home I will.
 

(She turns to look at him—then steps through the Window—Exit.)

Marlowe

 
Be sure—be sure!
 

(Heywood and Middleton approach.)

Heywood

 
Now, Marlowe!—you desert us!
 

Marlowe

 
Say not so;—
Or, saying so, add—that I have lost myself!
Nay, but I have; yonder I go in the dark!
(pointing after Cecilia)
 

Street Music.—Jacconot, singing outside.

 
Ram out the link, boys; ho, boys!⁶⁸⁷
There's daylight in the sky!
While the trenchers strew the floor,
And the worn-out grey beards snore,
Jolly throats continue dry!
Ram out the link, boys, &c.
 

Middleton

 
What voice is that?
 

Marlowe (through his teeth).

 

 
From one of the hells.
 

Heywood

 
The roystering singer approaches.
 

Enter Jacconot, with a full tankard.

Jacconot

Ever awake and shining, my masters! and here am I, your twin lustre, always ready to herald and anoint your pleasures, like a true Master of the Revels. I ha' just stepped over the drawer's body, laid nose and heels together on the door-mat, asleep, and here's wherewith to continue the glory!

Middleton

We need not your help.

Heywood

We thank you, Jack-o'-night: we would be alone.

Jacconot

What say you, Master Marlowe? you look as grim as a sign-painters' first sketch on a tavern bill, after his ninth tankard.

Middleton

Cease your death-rattle, night-hawk!

Marlowe

That's well said.

Jacconot

Is it? So 'tis my gallants—a night-bird like yourselves, am I.

Marlowe

Beast!—we know you.

Jacconot

Your merry health, Master Kit Marlowe! I'll bring a loud pair of palms to cheer your soul the next time you strut in red paint with a wooden weapon at your thigh.

Marlowe

Who sent for you, dorr-hawk?—go!

Jacconot

Go! Aha!—I remember the word—same tone, same gesture—or as like as the two profiles of a monkey, or as two squeaks for one pinch. Go!—not I—here's to all your healths! One pull more! There, I've done—take it, Master Marlowe; and pledge me as the true knight of London's rarest beauties!

Marlowe

 
I will! (Dashes the tankard at his head.)
 

Jacconot (stooping quickly).

A miss, 'fore-gad!—the wall has got it! See where it trickles down like the long robe of some dainty fair one! And look you here—and there again, look you!—what make you of the picture he hath presented?

Marlowe (staggers as he stares at the wall).

 
O subtle Nature! who hath so compounded
Our senses, playing into each other's wheels,
That feeling oft acts substitute for sight,
As sight becomes obedient to the thought—
How canst thou place such wonders at the mercy
Of every wretch that crawls? I feel—I see!
(Street Music as before, but farther off.)
 

Jacconot (singing).

 
Ram out the link, boys; ho, boys!
The blear-eyed morning's here;
Let us wander through the streets,
And kiss whoe'er one meets;
St. Cecil is my dear!
Ram out the link, boys, &c.
 

Marlowe (drawing).

 
Lightning come up from hell and strangle thee!
 

Middleton and Heywood.

 
Nay, Marlowe! Marlowe! (they hold him back).
 

Middleton (to Jacconot).

 
Away, thou bestial villain!
 

Jacconot (singing at Marlowe).

 
St. Cecil is my dear!
 

Marlowe (furiously).

 
Blast! blast and scatter
Thy body to ashes! Off! I'll have his ghost!
 

(rushes at Jacconot—they fight—Marlowe disarms him; but Jacconot wrests Marlowe's own sword from his hand, and stabs him—Marlowe falls)

Middleton

See! see!

Marlowe (clasping his forehead).

 
Who's down?—answer me, friends—is't I?—
Or in the maze of some delirious trance,
Some realm unknown, or passion newly born—
Ne'er felt before—am I transported thus?
My fingers paddle, too, in blood—is't mine?
 

Jacconot

O, content you, Master Marplot—it's you that's down, drunk or sober; and that's your own blood on your fingers, running from a three-inch groove in your ribs for the devil's imps to slide into you. Ugh! cry gramercy! for it's all over with your rhyming!

Heywood

 
O, heartless mischief!
 

Middleton

 
Hence, thou rabid cur!
 

Marlowe

 
What demon in the air with unseen arm
Hath turn'd my unchain'd fury against myself?
Recoiling dragon! thy resistless force
Scatters thy mortal master in his pride,
To teach him, with self-knowledge, to fear thee.
Forgetful of all corporal conditions,
My passion hath destroy'd me!
 

Jacconot

No such matter; it was my doing. You shouldn't ha' ran at me in that fashion with a real sword—I thought it had been one o' your sham ones.

Middleton

Away!

Heywood

 
See! his face changes—lift him up!
(they raise and support him)
Here—place your hand upon his side—here, here—
Close over mine, and staunch the flowing wound!
 

Marlowe (delirious.)

 
Bright is the day—the air with glory teems—
And eagles wanton in the smile of Jove:
Can these things be, and Marlowe live no more!
O Heywood! Heywood! I had a world of hopes
About that woman—now in my heart they rise
Confused, as flames from my life's coloured map,
That burns until with wrinkling agony
Its ashes flatten, separate, and drift
Through gusty darkness. Hold me fast by the arm!
A little aid will save me:—See! she's here!
I clasp thy form—I feel thy breath, my love—
And know thee for a sweet saint come to save me!
Save!—is it death I feel—it cannot be death?
 

Jacconot (half aside.)

Marry, but it can!—or else your sword's a foolish dog that dar'n't bite his owner.

Marlowe

 
O friends—dear friends—this is a sorry end—
A most unworthy end! To think—O God!—
To think that I should fall by the hand of one
Whose office, like his nature, is all baseness,
Gives Death ten thousand stings, and to the Grave
A damning victory! Fame sinks with life!
A galling—shameful—ignominious end! (sinks down).
O mighty heart! O full and orbed heart,
Flee to thy kindred sun, rolling on high!
Or let the hoary and eternal sea
Sweep me away, and swallow body and soul!
 

Jacconot

There'll be no "encore" to either, I wot; for thou'st led an ill life, Master Marlowe; and so the sweet Saint thou spok'st of, will 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 wagged his fiery beard; I ha' sung songs to the faint moon's echoes at daybreak and danced here away and there away, like the lightning through a forest! As to your sword and dagger play, I've got the trick o' the eye and wrist—who was he? What's all his gods—his goddesses and lies?—the first a'nt worth a word; and for the two last, I was always a prince of both! "Caitiff!" and "beast!" and "nothing!"—who was he?

Chief Officer

 
You're ours, for sundry villanies committed,
Sufficient each to bring your vice to an end;
The law hath got you safely in its grasp!
 

Jacconot (after a pause).

Then may Vice and I sit crown'd in heaven, while Law and Honesty stalk damned through hell! Now do I see the thing very plain!—treachery—treachery, my masters! I know the jade that hath betrayed me—I know her. 'Slud! who cares? She was a fine woman, too—a rare person—and a good spirit; but there's an end of all now—she's turned foolish and virtuous, and a tell-tale, and I am to be turned to dust through it—long, long before my time: and these princely limbs must go make a dirt-pie—build up a mud hut—or fatten an alderman's garden! There! calf-heads—there's a lemon for your mouths! Heard'st ever such a last dying speech and confession! Write it in red ochre on a sheet of Irish, and send it to Mistress Cecily for a death-winder. I know what you've got against me—and I know you all deserve just the same yourselves—but lead on, my masters!

Exeunt Jacconot and Officers.

Middleton

 
O Marlowe! canst thou rise with power no more?
Can greatness die thus?
 

Heywood (bending over the body.)

 
Miserable sight!
 

(A shriek outside the house).

Middleton

 
That cry!—what may that mean?
 

Heywood (as if awaking).

 
I hear no cry.
 

Middleton

 
What is't comes hither, like a gust of wind?
 

Cecilia rushes in.

Cecilia

 
Where—where? O, then, 'tis true—and he is dead!
All's over now—there's nothing in the world—
For he who raised my heart up from the dust,
And show'd me noble lights in mine own soul,
Has fled my gratitude and growing love—
I never knew how deep it was till now!
Through me, too!—do not curse me!—I was the cause—
Yet do not curse me—No! no! not the cause,
But that it happen'd so. This is the reward
Of Marlowe's love!—why, why did I delay?
O, gentlemen, pray for me! I have been
Lifted in heavenly air—and suddenly
The arm that placed me, and with strength sustain'd me,
Is snatch'd up, starward: I can neither follow,
Nor can I touch the gross earth any more!
Pray for me, gentlemen!—but breathe no blessings—
Let not a blessing sweeten your dread prayers—
I wish no blessings—nor could bear their weight;
For I am left, I know not where or how:
But, pray for me—my soul is buried here.(Sinks down upon the body.)
 

Middleton

 
"Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough!"(Solemn music.)
 

Dark Curtain