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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MARLOWE, by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: O, faustus Last Line: I heard the cry. Alternate Author Name(s): Marks, Lionel S., Mrs. Subject(s): Dramatists; Marlowe, Christopher (1564-1593); Plays & Playwrights; Theater & Theaters | |||
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. ROBERT GREENE, Playwrights and friends of Marlowe. THOMAS LODGE, THOMAS NASHE, GEORGE PEELE, GILES BARNBY Of Canterbury. GABRIEL ANDREW A young kinsman of Barnby's. RICHARD BAME. OWEN, South-Londoners. DAVY, FRANCIS ARCHER. ROWSE A sailor. HOST OF DEPTFORD TAVERN. JERMYN Servant to Her Ladyship. BOY At The Bee-Hive. THE WATCH. BELLMAN. HER LADYSHIP Of the Court. ALISON Barnby's Daughter. DAME BENET Hostess of The Bee-Hive. GILL Of Deptford. The Watchmen, link-boys, taverners, prentices, men and women. The action takes place between London and Canterbury, A. D. 1589–1593. ACT I. SCENE I SCENE: Interior of 'The Bee-Hive,' South London. A late Spring morning. Centre, a wide door-way, showing the street. Left (up), a door leading from a short flight of steps; (down) another door open on the inn garden. Right, a large chimney-place; a door beyond. Rushes on the floor. Sundry musical instruments hanging on the wall. — Down, to the left, a table set forth with mugs. Right, near the chimney, a smaller table; chairs. — Discovered at rise: DAME BENET and the BOY busied with Taverners going and coming. At the smaller table, alone, throwing dice, PEELE. Enter NASHE and LODGE, calling hilariously. Nashe HO, 'Faustus!' Lodge — Faustus, O! The hour is on. Come forth! Nashe — Come forth, wherever thou art hid! (To Benet.) Dame, we are bidden here, and he is pledged To pay the score. Reveal his hiding-place. Lodge Sing, Muse! Benet What manner o' man? Nashe, Peele (laughing) O, Faustus, Faustus! Lodge — Where are thy laurels? — Why, Kit Marlowe then. (They join Peele.) Benet Eh, Marlowe? Will you call him by his name? [Hallooing without. Enter Greene Greene Where is our Faustus? (Seeing Benet.) Soft. ... Benet (incensed) O, Master Greene! 'T is Master Greene again! Greene It is, it is. — I am an honored guest: forbid me not! I come to celebrate Kit Marlowe's play Of Faustus; but I swear to pledge thee first, In thy most superfine — Benet I warrant you! — Greene — Of muscadine. Do so, my Inspiration! These gentlemen are slack, but I am constant, And I'll begin, if thou wilt fetch the pint. Benet You are most constant, sir, in pledging me, But Master Peele there, has begun already; Share cup with him. Greene She doubts me! George, you knave, Could you not save your thirst a little while And drink a rouse to Kit, his tragedy? (To Benet.) Come, if you will be stern, Zenocrate, — There is the test of notability In all this verse. Come, chick, I'll take thee out To see 't some day. Thou shalt hear Faustus swear! And when Kit empties out his pocketful To pay his score, and many scores to come, And thine, and mine, and ours and every man's, — Why, thou shalt grant me that it is a play! [Joins the others. Enter Barnby, in haste Barnby Good hostess, — pray you, dame! Benet Give you good day. Barnby Canst thou, good woman, tell me anything Of Gabriel Andrew? Benet Master Andrew? Ay He's wont to come here for a packet, sir, Each week and sometimes more; some news it is Of Canterbury. Barnby Ay, we 're kinsmen there. Benet He should be here this noon. Barnby Eh, heaven be praised! I will return anon, and bring my daughter. We met with mischief here upon our way To London, — where I go for marketing, And she to visit. — Wilt thou keep a place Where she may rest? Benet O, sir, as neat as heaven. Barnby That's well; that should suffice. (Going.) For let me not Conceal from you, — I am of Canterbury — It was my chance to have my money stolen. Some cut-purse in the street — Benet (coldly) Then, sir, you'd better Try 'The Three Tuns' or — Barnby Nay, nay, I'll be plain. This Gabriel Andrew is some kin of mine And he will gladly lend me what I owe. Benet (curtseying) Oh, — Master Andrew! [Exit Barnby. Enter Davy and Owen, talking Davy Come, that should be brave! Owen I say, I saw it; and I'll go again, That will I! Peele (aside) Hist! [Davy and Owen sit at the longer table, left. Owen Boy, fetch a pint of ale. Davy But what's a 'Faustus'? Owen Why, it is the man! This man you hear me tell of, in the play! — Peele (Come, listen here!) Owen And Faustus is his name; And he it is, doth sell him to the Devil. [The playwrights approach, one by one, affecting a thirst for information. Other Taverners gather about. Peele What man is this? Davy It is a man i' the play — Owen 'T is a new play; I saw it yesterday. He sells his soul to the Devil. Nashe (hastening up) For how much? What did the Devil pay for him? Lodge — What man? Owen Why, Faustus is his name. — It is a scholar That doth most rare high talking; full of names Of all the arts that ever you shall hear. He tells of magic — and of Zodiac — But yet he will have more! Nashe Who's Zodiac? Owen Well, let that be.... He signs away his soul Unto the Devil, and he signs with blood. Greene Nay, in plain sight? Enter Marlowe. — He is reading a ballad that he carries in his hand. He is unobserved by the Taverners, who are absorbed in this account of 'Faustus'; and the name catches his ear. He stands behind his friends and hears with repressed excitement. Owen (to the group) Ay, you should see it, you! 'T is marvellous high with every kind of words; And beyond that, 't is full of devilry, And divers charms of magic and hell-fire; Until his hour is come that he must die, — When clock strikes twelve. And by and by he says, 'O Faustus, — Faustus!' Ye should hear him say — Greene (ranting) — O Faustus, O! — And what ado in that? Shall this waste pennies? Shall this bring a crowd By bridge, by water, — horse and heels, to see? To pay a penny for a's standing-room, And hear a dismal speech of 'Faustus, O! Thou hast one hour to live!' — Owen — So cuff me, now. 'T is a brave play. Davy — Od'sbody! I will go And see that very play this afternoon. I'll try it at a penny, and if 't be As good as thou wilt say, I'll have a chair, That will I! Lodge This is madness. — Spendthrift, stay! Lend me thine ear. (Taking him by the ear.) Nashe Friend, friend, you force the loan. Lodge Why should a man desire to witness this Poor raven inspiration? Peele Why dost thou Waste a good penny on a dolorous tale Of how a man sells his immortal soul To the Devil? Marlowe Ay! (They turn.) What think you strange in that? 'T is an old tale, — a tale of every day. Owen (doggedly) I never heard it; and the play is brave. He signs away his soul for twenty years Of power and glory; power and power and power! He will have, and he must have, and he will. Whatever 't is, why he will have it! — Marlowe Ah! Doth thy tongue stick at that? Owen But his doth fire! He in the play, there is no holding him. (Marlowe listens, with burning eyes.) A made my ears hum! — 'T is a godless thing, — But for to see the arts he does, and all, How he will raise up spirits to do his will, And has Fair Helen out o' the history To be his love — Marlowe So! Does he that? Owen Fair Helen? He 'll have the very Sun out o' the sky! And in the end — Marlowe — The end? Owen The hour comes on; The hour it strikes. — And after all, Hell has him! (Loud laughter.) Marlowe So merry? Davy Brave! Owen But you should see it, you! How when he signs with Mephistophilis, — A poor sad devil, Mephistophilis — I never saw a devil sad before — Lodge Marry, wake up! Owen You would be thanking heaven It did not fall to you: else who could say? ... But later, look you, when his hour was come, I did not grudge him, — by the mass, not I! He talked of heaven and did make much of God, So I began to heed, against my will, And came nigh to a terror. (Rises.) Marlowe That were base. Owen (vext) Oh, say you so! But if you see the play, Grin if you can at that! — It is a wonder How this man Faustus, who is damned in the end, As all men know, should so call out on God As to put me in a terror! [Exeunt Owen and Davy. Taverners disperse. The playwrights rush on Marlowe. Marlowe consults his ballad. Marlowe What is the air, 'Fortune, my Foe'? [They hum, meditating. Lodge Come, have you spent the morning Making a riddle? Peele Come, wool-gatherer! Have mercy. I am dry. Marlowe Boy, bring the sack. [Exit Boy. Help me. I have a rival in the street. — 'Ballad of Faustus'! Greene Go up higher, Kit. The gods invite thee. Nashe Bite not, bite not, envy! Lodge O Fame, O Fame, I see thou art resolved To sup with us to-night. Marlowe (looking up hastily) To-night? What say you? — Lodge I speak of Fortune — 't is a fickle lady. — [Marlowe recovers himself. But not the only one. Come, read. [They sit at the table, to the right. Marlowe (reading) 'The Judgment' — The Judgment, mark! — 'of God, showed upon one John Faustus, Doctor in Divinity. Tune, Fortune is my Foe.' — What tune is that? 'All Christian men, give ear awhile to me, How I am plunged in pain, but cannot die:' — Greene (reading) 'I liv'd a life the like none did before!' — Reënter Boy, with wine Peele Alas, alack! — Lodge No more — no more — All No more! — Enter Gabriel Andrew. (Benet meets him.) Gabriel Good-day to you! Benet You're called for, Master Andrew. Some kin of yours in Canterbury — Reënter Barnby. Barnby Hey, lad — 'T is I! — What, Gabriel, lad! Gabriel (turning) God save you, sir! — [Their loud greeting attracts the notice of the playwrights Nashe Who's the old Puritan? I scent Puritan. Gr-r-r-r! Peele Down, down, sir! Naught but yeoman. Greene — Russet, boy! Barnby (to Gabriel) I saw thee, lad. I saw thee, over yon Just out of hearing. Eh! There is a smack Of Canterbury still about thee, sir, No guilds nor crafts nor prenticeships can take, Nor City, nor the Borough. — Well, 't is brave! — No city like our own; and so say all That come to see it. — Stay now, wait a bit. Well done, well done. Here's more of us; my girl! [He hastens to the doorway and beckons. Our Alison. — I brought her up to visit With our she-cousin Fenwick, over Bridge. And well I put small money by my purse, — Barely enough, mark that! — I lost it all. Some cut-purse, lad, some prigger or some rook Hath fleeced us on the way. And but for one Young fellow passing, of a sober tongue, Who showed us hither — Enter Alison, followed by Richard Bame. She stands in the doorway timidly, looking about her. Barnby still talks to Gabriel. Greene Ah, look there, look there! Lodge Hey, nonny! Marlowe I was born in Canterbury. I did not know such grew there. Lodge You are blind. You are as blind as Love. I told you so. Marlowe But see her stand, the little Quietude! Greene She is my only shepherdess. Behold, My next Song knocking at a hovel-door. — O gods, how I will sing her! Barnby (turning) Alison. [She comes down, followed by Bame. Lodge Name for a honeysuckle! Nashe Oh, scholastic! Greene (aside) O eglantine and hawthorn, Lady May! — And strawberries — and dew, — and clotted cream! Barnby Our girl, sir Master Andrew. Alison, Give him good day. Gabriel You'll not forget me, mistress? Alison No, Gabriel, No! Barnby No, sooth! Well said, well said. You were a prentice when she saw you last, Good master-craftsman, eh! — But it takes years To season our green lads of Canterbury. None like 'em. Eh? — None like 'em. Marlowe (aside) None, indeed! Here 's too much welcome, look you, for one man. Eglantine, hawthorn, dew, and Lady May! — He cannot have it all. — I 'm russet, too! [Rising impetuously and approaching the country group What news from Canterbury? Nashe, Greene, Lodge, Peele (behind him) 'Ware Tamburlaine! — Hist, Russet! [The Canterbury people turn to look at him. Bame, hanging about for a word draws near. The playwrights ply Marlowe with asides. Marlowe (to Barnby, naïvely) I beg indulgence, but methought I saw Some Canterbury tan upon that face. Sure, no mistaking such! — [Barnby and Gabriel consult. Nashe Kit, this is better Than thy whole course of playing at The Curtain. Greene Inspirèd Shepherd — Peele — Dog! Marlowe (winningly) Doth no one know Christopher Marlowe? (To Benet, aside.) What's the old man's name? [She whispers. Marlowe (to Barnby) I see, I am forgotten. Barnby (puzzled) Nay, nay, come: — Marlowe I pray your pardon. Barnby Marlin, didst thou say? Alison Christopher Marlowe? Lodge (aside) Soft! Marlowe Madam, your voice Sounds of the sky-lark rising from the downs At home! [Alison is dumb with admiration. Bame (moodily to Barnby) Well, I may go, sir, since you find Friends everywhere about you. — Barnby Nay, come, come! This is the young man, Gabriel, whom we met After I missed my purse. — [Playwrights delighted. 'T was he did show us — Marlowe But surely you 've a welcome for Kit Marlowe? Barnby Eh! Son of Marlowe? John, the shoemaker? I know thy brothers well. [Consults Alison. Marlowe The devil he does! — Lodge (aside) Down, Tamburlaine! Alison (to Marlowe) Sometimes they speak of thee Marlowe Sometimes? Indeed, I hope! — (Apart.) But not too often! [Alison, left, talking to her father. Bame accosts Marlowe. Bame Wilt have thyself the only man in Kent? I too have kin in Canterbury. Marlowe Too late. The kinsfolk are all gone. You know you are Some borderer, some third wife's second-cousin. Some stranger-in-law to a step-farther-on! Now, I have never seen you till to-day; And, as a Kentish man, I will commend No other man unto a Kentish maid. Go to, go to. Thy conduct may approve thee, When time lets all be seen. Patience, good soul! Remember that the meek inherit the earth, — When other men are done with it. (To Barnby) I, sir, Glory to call my own our blessed City; How timely happy, I have never known Until this happy morning, — that dear Shrine Of the most holy Martyr — (aside) and of me. 'T was at the King's School — Alison I remember thee! — When I was little. Marlowe (aside) Save me, Reminiscence. — (To her.) And I a school-boy? — As I live! Wert thou — Wert thou the little poppet, used to cling Fast to my hand when I was sent to buy A pennyworth of bread? And was it thou, — Growing no taller than a wild sweet-brier — Used to reach up a piteous little hand, To stroke the pigeons at the poulterer's, Strung up to buy, — and call them 'pretty birds,' And blow their feathers soft, to wake them up? Alison Why that was I! Father, he knows me well. Marlowe (to Greene) How now, Cock Robin? Greene (aside) And I swore he could Never create a woman! — Name us to her, Or I denounce thee. Peele Share and share alike. Gabriel (to Marlowe) There be not many of our town, you mind, That share your quality. Marlowe Yet, oftentime I dream of those old days and turn about Whether it were not better to go back To the old folk, — the sheep. — Nashe (prompting) The shoes, the shoes! — Lodge O Scythian Shepherd, now assume thy Shoes! Bame (to Benet) He is a knavish player, as thou dost know. Speak up for me. I shewed them on their way, And they 've not asked my name. Benet Stay till they do. — Marlowe Dear Mistress Alison, have I your leave To do my fellows honor? For they crave To wear their names before you. They have heard Of Canterbury days! (Here Tom, here Tom.) This is my fellow-student, Thomas Nashe; The gentlest soul that ever spitted man Upon an adder-tongue, — the scourge of vice, Sleepless protector of all Puritans. (Presenting Lodge) Step hither, Tom. Here is another Tom, Tom Lodge, the Second Son of our Lord-Mayor; Our nobly born. This is our Sunday Tom. A poet, too. And smile upon him, mistress, Trust me, that smile of yours shall never die Out of the world. — My good friend, Thomas Lodge. — Entreat him kindly, for my sake. Lodge (aside) O, Faustus! Marlowe And Master Peele, of whom the world relates A thousand jests he had no knowledge of. It is the price of his most fertile wit That every quip, to pass for current coin, Must stamp it with his name. Come hither, Robin. Let me commend to you this gentleman, Master of Arts, indeed! Benet (apart) Of the black arts! Marlowe His nature, like his name, o'ergreens whate'er He looks on, with such pastoral invention As would enchant your wits and hold you bound With charms as innocent as ring-me-round! — His very name's a lure to every rhyme. Bame (to Marlowe) By all you say, you are great folk to know. If I were trained a player, I could tell My worth as aptly. Marlowe So? Good Master Barnby, Here is a friend suspects you have forgot him. He says — he too has kin in Canterbury. Do you not know his face? Bethink you, sir. I heard you speak of mischief by the way, And one you met thereafter? Barnby Ay, so, so (bewildered). There is a look about him — Marlowe Richard Bame His name is. — And that look? — Now might it be The man, by chance, who took your purse? Bame (violently) The devil! Benet Good gentleman — Lodge (clapping Bame) Tush man, a foolish jest! Come, Kit, the hour is on. — You must be going. On to the play! (Hastening Marlowe.) Gabriel What play is that? Lodge Why, 'Faustus,' Kit Marlowe's tragedy. Alison — Is he a poet? Gabriel About the scholar who did sell — Alison Oh, father, Oh, father, let us go! Barnby No, no, my girl. Here is no place for us, though Gabriel Bid his friends find him here. Gabriel 'The Bee-Hive,' sir, Is never riotous; bide here and see. Oh, do not go to-day — sir, Alison! Marlowe (to Alison) I'll comfort thee full measure for the play. But stay awhile, I'll teach thee my best song, And 't is of shepherds and as white as sheep. This, for the sake of home! Alison Do thou remember. Gabriel And, Master Marlowe, tell me, what are you? Marlowe Why, sir, I am the man who wrote the play Of Faustus who did sell him to the Devil! I am the man, the devil and the soul, — Good-day to you! [Exeunt Playwrights ACT I. SCENE II SCENE: The same: evening. — There is now a fire in the chimney-place. — Candle light. The street door is closed. Discovered at rise, DAME BENET and the BOY, at back, counting up scores. ALISON and BAME near the fire. Bame So now you stand assured of me and mine, Will you go with me soon to see the Fair? I have as good a right — Alison Oh, Master Bame, Here are no rights! — It is a courtesy. Bame You look as if you dreamed. Alison Well, it is late. Enter Jermyn Jermyn (to Benet) Harken, is Master Marlowe here? Benet Eh, 'Master'? And 'Marlowe' here and 'Marlowe' there! — I tell thee He is grown great thus sudden! — Nay, good sir, He is not here as yet. Will you be served! Jermyn I come to bid him wait a message here From one — some one that's never asked to wait. Benet Oh, sir, he should be with you very soon: He said as much; within the hour, I swear. [Exit Jermyn. Bame (to Alison) Come mistress. Will you find some closer place? Here's too much noise if that one be upon us. 'Devil,' — I well believe it; as to 'Scholar' I am not wise enough to spell out 'Scholar' From Knave and Roisterer. Alison Will you not learn Rather to use your eyes than to give ear To what a grudge may say? Indeed, I think It was a gentle thing for him, a poet, That he should so entreat our memories, And we but country-bred! Bame Ay, very gentle! Enter Gabriel Andrew Alison Ah, here is Gabriel. Tell me, Gabriel, Did father find my cousin? — Nay, not yet! Gabriel That did he, and he bade me fetch you there Before 't is darker — if you wish to go. They are on fire to see you. Alison This same night? Gabriel He will be back; and if you are not eager, Or if you should be weary, or if — Alison Please, I will rest here to-day. To-morrow's soon Enough to see my cousin. I would rest. Benet (coming down) Why, so thou shalt. Too many gentlemen All bowing fit to dizzy a maid's mind! Come, come, good Master Andrew! She shall rest With me to-night. Her father lends her to me, And he'll return anon. Why, hair o' silk, But this is rare in London! Gabriel That I warrant. Bame (to Alison) Since you will wait here, mistress, I will go. Commend me to your father. It was he Said you should go with me to see the Fair To-morrow. Alison Then? Will not the next day serve? And since you know our cousin, Master Bame, You will know where to find us. Bame (going) I will find you. Alison Good even. [Turns back to Gabriel. Bame (to Benet, going) As to thee, I say, — I say, Take care. There will be soon no gentle-folk To pay thy rents, if thou wilt entertain Such brawlers as were here at noon. Thine ale Is good, thy cakes are honest, but I'll eat No more of them if I share board with such! Benet (incensed) 'Brawlers?' And 'Such,' — and 'Such!' Nay, I'll be bound — This is Extravagance! — What, Master Marlowe? Bame The devil take him! — [About to make his exit, he collides with the playwrights who enter in high feather, Peele, Greene intoxicated, Lodge, Nash, last of all Marlowe. Peele (stopping Bame) What, that Face, that Face! — Nashe Stop Face! — 'Thou hast a look of Canterbury.' Greene (singing) Hey, Canterbury! Sing hey, sing ho! Be merry, be merry, With briar and berry, And down-a-down derry — Lodge (singing) And buds in the snow! And merrily so, So ho! [Exit Bame angrily. Nashe More matter, Tom. This is a bacchanal For laurelled brows. (To Greene.) Come, Shepherd of black sheep; Take up thy crook, — thy one of many crooks — Greene (seeing Alison) Don't use me so — before the Shepherdess; She puts me out of favor with myself. Go on, go on, let no man interrupt. — I am a Master of Arts. [Exeunt Benet and Alison, left. Peele But will you rime 'Zephyr' with 'heifer' for a pastoral? Greene Pastoral? Bah, go to, go to! — I know. I have a sentence for you. 'Even as ... By the pale light of Hesper, Philomel, Who singeth while a thorn doth pierce her heart' ... Where am I? [Exit Gabriel. Nashe — Where? In Southwark. Greene Nay, nay, nay! — Where i' the sentence? Nashe Oh, 'Doth pierce her heart.' Greene 'Heart, that is pierced by the cruel thorn' — Where am I? Lodge In 'The Bee-Hive,' of the Borough Greene Nay, in the period? Marlowe Why, 'The cruel thorn! Come pluck it out, for pity sake. Greene 'The thorn, Which by the light of Hesper, Philomel, Who singeth' ... Nashe When she singeth! — Lodge — Where she is! So safely home again. Greene But where — Nashe Lost, lost, Poor Robin! Hold by me, and when the Watch Comes by, he shall to rescue with his lanthorn, And tell us where we are. [Reënter Benet. Greene (laughing) O, Tom, O Tom, I feel as merry as a madrigal. Oho! Oh, this would stir you up to laugh, Could I but get it out! See you not why They call it madrigal? — It hath a point To prick your nose upon — a mad — mad — mad — [Benet hastens towards Greene. Lodge (to Benet) Why, this is genius, not intoxication. Benet Under my roof? Again? O Master Greene, You, you! — I could have sworn. Come sir, be off! To The Three Tuns, — The Owl, The Owl's the place! If you'll go down, why to The Owl you go; Ay, low and lower down, and worse and worse, To a bad end! — It's in your face. I see it. Greene To a bad end? No, no. Benet It is as sure As gospel-spelling. Ho, who need be born With a caul upon her eyes to see the end Of Such, — of Such! — Out with you! [Hurrying him out to the street. Nashe Robin, flit! Benet (calling after) To a bad end! — [Reënter Greene. Be off! Greene O, wait, good woman! Good Benet, take it back. Benet What then? Greene The curse. You did not see it? Nay, the end — the end. Benet I will not say a word. Greene (doggedly) Nay, I'll not go, Until you take it back. Benet — Saint Ananias! Will you begone? Greene Ah, take it back, good Benet. Benet Well, then, I take it back. — Now take thyself. [Exit Greene, between Nashe and Peele. The crazy-pate! [Exit, right. Marlowe (to Lodge) Good-night. Lodge What ails you, Kit? Here's hospitality, — no ears, no eyes, Even for that selfsame little country-maid Who so remembers you! Marlowe (going up) Benet, I say — [Rouses the Boy, who starts up. Is there a word for me? A messenger? Boy There was the footman from My Lady — Marlowe Hush! — Boy Said one desired to see thee, — will be here — Marlowe When, when? Boy — 'Know not. Marlowe (aside and coming down) To-night, then, — ay, to-night. Gods! — What imperial largess! I shall see her, See, speak with her, and then ... I do believe The world is mine to-day! Lodge Well, Tamburlaine, Give me a word before your chariot Shall whirl you out of hearing. Tell me now, Who is 'My Lady — Hush'? Marlowe You ask me this? Lodge I ask it. Modify thy royal kick, For sake of old acquaintance. Marlowe Jest not, Tom. It is none else but — Helen, the world's joy, The world's triumphant torment. Lodge Ah, heigh-ho! Marlowe Hers is the Beauty that hath moved the world, Since the first woman. Beauty cannot die. No worm may spoil it. Unto earth it goes, There to be cherished by the cautious spring, Close folded in a rose, until the time Some new imperial spirit comes to earth Demanding a fair raiment; and the earth Yields up her robes of vermeil and of snow, Violet-veinèd, — beautiful as wings, And so the Woman comes! Lodge Heigh-ho! — A dream. Marlowe Immortal, then! What have we but our dreams? Why, to fetch wisdom out of the Holy Book, That hath a saying or two, — 't is such as dreams Alone, that moths corrupt not. Actions, deeds, — Realities you call them, — all are sham. Tangible dust, true death, most real decay! The worm can prove them real, — by eating them! And then where, where? [Touching his own breast. Is this Kit Marlowe, think you? Bah! I am what I say and what I dream, Ay, what I dream and dream! — this fellow, here, Is none of me. [Alison appears, left, on the threshold steps, looks down wistfully, then exit, unobserved. Lodge O Faustus, Faustus O! Thou art far-sighted; so far sighted, boy, That thou wilt waste away with longing for The one lost Pleiad! In the sad meanwhile Thou wilt not see what's nearest to thy nose. Take it: 't is wisdom. So some Helen smiles On you? Marlowe To-day! For all things smile to-day. I know, I know, fortune may cloud again. But now the Sun will have his sovereign whim. One triumph brings another by the hand, And all the rest come crowding. Lodge — For a day! And she would crown you with a laurel wreath, In secret? Marlowe Think! For her to seek me out, A goddess to a beggar! Why, my lair Is more uncertain than a tiger's rest; And yet she did not summon me to Court. Lodge No. (Apart.) And I wonder why! Marlowe She speaks with me Here in the Borough; sometimes at this place Whither I come, thou knowest, when I have more Than a bad penny! — I would not have her step Too near some thresholds I am driven to, Such as poor Robin haunts. Lodge But — Marlowe You will ask Why, then, to-day is more than other days? Because to-day, 't is true, 't is true, — I won! 'Faustus' — is Fame. The people and the Court Were all one voice. Ned Alleyn had his laurels; And I win mine and wear them. Oh, I knew Her, through her mask, — and those applauding hands! 'T is come at last. Even the mongrel ballad I found this morning, tells me welcomely, I have attained. — Oh, she shall not confer All, all, forever. I'll be glorious, — No beggar poet! She is Helena. Was it a little gift, think you, to say Such things of woman? Lodge So. 'Was this the face' — Marlowe 'Was this the Face that launched a thousand ships And burned the topless towers of Ilium!' Lodge Sun yourself while ye may, Kit, — sun thyself. Thou sayest true; thou art a glorious madman, Born to consume thyself anon, in ashes, And rise again to immortality. Marlowe The only immortality, of Fame, — Glory on glory; of unflinching gaze, A pride that shall outstare the northern lights. And when I die? — An arrow from the Sun! Oh, if she cease to smile, as thy looks say, What if? I shall have drained my splendor down, To the last flaming drop! — Then take me, darkness, And mirk and mire and black oblivion: Despairs that raven where no camp-fire is, Like the wild beasts. I shall be even blessed, To be so damned. Lodge I cannot follow you. You would be arrogant, boy, you know, in hell, And keep the lowest circle to yourself! So mad are you? — And yet I could have sworn Your eyes took interest in the little saint We saw to-day. Marlowe The little country shrine? Why so they did. And therefore she was made. 'T is only she will look with pitying gaze On me in gorgeous torment. Snowflake pity, Destined to melt and lose itself in fire, Or ever it can cool my tongue! Ay, Tom. I owe the Faith more tribute than I pay, For its apt figures. Con thy Bible, Tom. I'm glad they chanced here. I shall think, sometimes, Just of her face: the little Quietude, Standing in shelter, quite immovable, — And reach my hand up for a tear, a drop Of holy water from those hands of hers. She fills the only need was left to me; And sooth to say, I never thought of it Before I saw her. Reënter Alison Lodge Look you, there she is. Marlowe Ah, cousin Alison! Alison (on the steps) Good-even, sir, — Sirs. But I am not 'Cousin' Alison. Marlowe Forgive. I have a longing to make sure Of anchorage somewhere. You did not see The play this afternoon? [She comes down. Alison My father would not. He should be here by now. He went to see If he could find our cousin, over Bridge. I am to stay with her till market's over; And if she wish, until Midsummer-Day. [Lodge retires up and tickles the Boy, who is dozing, with a rush. Marlowe What can I do to hasten this bare hour, Or sweeten it for you? Alison If you would sing — The song you promised ... Marlowe She remembers that? (To Lodge.) Come here, you Second Son, and ply your art. Boy, where's the lute? [Boy starts up, takes lute down from the wall and gives it to Lodge. Lodge comes down and they seat themselves near the table, Lodge and Marlowe opposite Alison. Reënter Benet to listen, at back, with drowsy satisfaction. I showed thee of this air, Did I not, Tom? Now set me off my verse. T is called 'The Passionate Shepherd to His Love,' And listen to the words, and you shall learn. [Lodge plays; Alison watches Marlowe artlessly. Song 'Come live with me, and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountains, yields. 'And we will sit upon the rocks Seeing the shepherds' — Enter Barnby Barnby Well done, well done now! How is this my girl? Too weary — wert thou? [Coming down, followed by Benet. But thy cousin's house Would better feed this cheek with red again. Am I to know thee for my Alison? Tired of London? So? [Exit Lodge, yawning. Marlowe (aside to Benet) Oh, take him hence. I shall be going soon. But till I'm gone — [Gives her a coin. Benet Now, Master Barnby, will you see the Inn And have your comfort? Marlowe (to Barnby) Only let her stay A moment more, until I end the song. [Goes up to the street door. Barnby What song is this? Well, tarry if you will. Be cheery, wench, and pipe up for thyself And show them how we sing in Canterbury. Ay, so! Well done. [Exit, left, preceded by Benet with a candledip. Marlowe opens door, centre, and looks up and down. The Bellman's voice passes chanting. Bellman Hang — out — your lights! — [Marlowe lets the door fall shut and comes down abstractedly towards the lute which Lodge has left on the table. He sits and takes it up. Alison sits, dreamily, on the other side of the table, and listens spellbound, while Marlowe watches her face. Bellman (passing without). Past — nine — o'clock and a — starlight — night. Marlowe (sings) 'Come live with me, and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountains, yields. 'And we will sit upon the rocks Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. 'And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; 'A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair-linèd slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. 'The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning. If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love!' [At the end of the song, she does not move, but sits looking straight before her, held by his eyes, as if she were charmed. He reaches his hand across the table towards her. She does not move. Marlowe Why, this it is to listen! — Art thou dreaming? Alison (like a child) I do not know. Marlowe And will you not say Thanks? Alison Oh, Master Christopher — Marlowe The song went ill? Alison Thou knowest that it did not. Marlowe (laughing) Alison, Sweet friend, thou art so frugal of thy praise! And yet this song is often paid in honey. Alison It is most wonderful. Marlowe Then why so still? Alison Oh, everything is changed. Marlowe Why? Tell me why Alison Indeed, I do not know — I do not know. I never heard these things. — Thou art a poet. I never saw a poet — and I wish — I could know more. Marlowe (laughing aloud) You do? And so you shall. Look, Eve new come to Eden! Well, of all New things, thou art the newest new-comer! Was it the song? Alison The song — ay, that, and thee: And everything. Marlowe The song and everything — Within the song! And what is there, stray child, What strangeness? — What but love, as I am blest, — Love — love! (with great enjoyment). [She rises, startled. Where are you going, Alison? What would you know of poets? All things new! Gods! For the boon of such a listening ear, Eager and charmed to listen, such a soul, Wide as the first, first morning! — Alison, Poets have need sometimes: I would be thanked As only you can thank me. For the Song, I'll give it to you — (rising) Alison Wilt thou? Marlowe And for that, Give me a kiss ... [She looks at him with candid amazement. Sure, that's a little thing. Our English maids Give kisses where they will. Do you not so? Alison Yes ... Marlowe Why, then, give it me. — You do not know, But yet I have a fancy that from you Some charm must come with it, some blessedness, Such as I have no name for. — Alison. [She moves towards him unconsciously, ever delaying. Are you so frugal? There's the way of maids. The smallest boon they will deny; but ask With arrogance, and have what is to have! Well, I'll be arrogant, to make it dear. [Stepping farther away and holding his arms towards her, where she poises, regarding him. What are you? Faith, no woman, and no child: A little Dream that pities not a prayer, — Will come no nearer tho' the dreamer starve, For fear a kiss might bind you! — Faith, I know You will not stay, Bird-shadow! You will fade, At the first omen of — Enter Jermyn, from the street Jermyn — Her Ladyship. [Exit Jermyn, leaving the door wide. Enter Her Ladyship. Marlowe's arms drop; he turns, brilliant and bewildered, towards the door as Her Ladyship, the upper part of her face masked, advances. — Alison shrinks away, puzzled, regarding them. Her Ladyship Well, 'Faustus,' do you know me? Marlowe 'Helena'! Her Ladyship I was in doubt lest I should find you here, Beset with mad companions, noisy wits, Such as I saw resorting to thy side Where thou wert sitting, poet among poets, But none like thee! — Come, let me hear yet more; But no, it must run dry. Marlowe No, never, never! Will you have more? Her Ladyship Yes, more of it, more, more! This is new wine you pour me. I am fired To know how much your tongue may dare. You climb Such dread audacious height. I watch, in terror To see you fall and dash this god to clay. More of my music! — I am thirsty now, I, who have had such words as not the Queen Ever commanded yet, and knew them mine. I was thy Helena? Thou swearest it? — Nay, by the rood? [Alison slips out, left, into the garden. Marlowe. Thou knowest thou art she. Her Ladyship (holding off her mask exultantly) 'Was this the face that launched a thousand ships!' More, more! — You're swift to promise, but, my Faustus, You can no more. Marlowe Helen, you draw me on From world to world and whither none can follow. 'T is you discover to my insatiate mind Seas, countries, spheres I never dreamed before; All longing, and the imperious will to be A glory that shall hold your looks, I swear, As the Sun compels his flower to turn to him. Yes, you shall listen! — Yes, you shall drink down Imperial draughts of honey, fire, and dew; And if you will, my last pale, savage pearl, To make more precious with unpitied death, That fearful wine! Her Ladyship Are you then so much mine? Marlowe Thine and the Sun's! Light draws me, and I follow. Drink my song. Grow fair, you sovran flower, with earth and air; Sip from the last year's leaves their memories Of April, May, and June, their summer joy, Their lure for every nightingale, their longing; Fill you with rain and sunset; live and thrill, Whose master-work is only to exist! Terrible Beauty, that can so enthrall And bind the service of all elements, As they were serving-maidens: eyes and mouth, You give back to the silence of the Earth Whose treasury you beggar, only silence. Her Ladyship — And this. [She kisses him. Reënter Alison from the garden, unnoticed. Her Ladyship and Marlowe go towards the doorway. Outside appear two link- boys with torches. ACT II SCENE: Garden of The Bee-Hive three weeks later. — At back a high a wall, with a posterngate, centre, showing a distance with housetops and trees. — Right, an entrance to the Inn, with steps. Another door below the steps, leading to a cellarage. Left, wall covered with vines. A little to right of centre, in front, a large vine-covered arbor, open, front and back; the sides trellised. Within, a rude table with two benches, another seat outside; upon it a trencher with beans and carrots. Between the arbor and the garden-wall, left, a row of hop-vines trained on poles, planted thickly. Other shrubbery. A bench behind the hop-vines. Summer afternoon. Discovered at rise, GABRIEL ANDREW, standing moodily in the entrance of the arbor, as if waiting for some one. Enter, hurriedly, from the Inn, BAME. Gabriel WELL, what's to say? Bame You know as well as I. 'T is all of Alison. Gabriel I had rather think Of Alison to myself than talk with any. Bame But will you reason? Gabriel Deeply, if I can. Bame You know our talk. You saw as well as I, How that quill-spoiler cozened you and her, And had her eyes and hearing so none else In all the town made any sound to her! Not you yourself, although you had the right, Knowing them well at home; while I was strange. And strange I'm like to stay! And yet I paid Some little service; met them on the way And showed them to The Bee-Hive. I can name My kin among the towns-folk that they know. I have as good a right — Gabriel To wait — to wait. Bame Ay, then, to wait! But wherefore, ask thyself. Do you not see we are waiting for this Marlowe To have her up and off and out of reach Before our eyes? Gabriel That maid is not the maid To shake from any bough. Bame But do you see How she is altered ever since that day, And day by day, of late, with watching for him? Gabriel So you have seen her, day by day, of late. Bame As well as you. Gabriel Marry, as well as I! H'm, with two daily suitors the poor maid Should feel her hearing worn. I cannot marvel That she is pale. Bame Ay, she is pale enough. Yet still she visits with her cousin there, Week in, week out. Gabriel (troubled) I do not grudge her London. A maid should see the sights. Bame And she sees none. I have entreated her to come with me To Paul's, to Chepe, to hear the singing-boys; And she will stay indoor as if she feared To lose some jewel, an she left her house. Gabriel Ay, doth she so? Bame Thou wilt not boast to me It was thy face. Gabriel (whimsically) No, no, faith, if I could I would; but have thy slender satisfaction. Eke it out with a carrot! — Well, you say She will not go with you? Nor yet with me. Bame Until to-day. To-day! — Ah, listen now! — I'm on my way to bring her to the Gardens Yonder, 'to see the shows.' Gabriel You shall be proud. Bame To see the shows, forsooth! But until now, I had begged her to come with me anywhere Save hither to the Borough. Gabriel Well, poor maid, Must all her joy be bounded north by west? Bame Thou hast my meaning. When I spoke of this, She gave me such a smile as I dare vow Thou never hadst, and promised me to come; Begged me to bring her to see Benet here, That same 'old hostess that was kind to her.' I go to meet her at the waterside, Since this is all of London she would see! — 'T is Marlowe — Marlowe — and thou knowest well The maid is pining for him. Ay, by heaven, Waiting to catch a grain of news, as pigeons Flutter and flock to peck a lentil up. She treasures every word that folk let fall About these players, — covering her ears To words that mar as true word only can; Denying all with shudders; and sometimes, — The music that he taught her — Gabriel Music? what? Bame Oh, I was not far off. Gabriel I warrant you I was; or had I caught you listening, I would have — Bame Save abuses. You shall use them To better purpose yet. I say the man Made merry for an hour with charming her, A hunter, weary of his fowling-piece Until to-morrow! But the charm has worked. She dare not breathe till he shall come to say Breathe so, or so. She lives not in to-day. I tell you more. He shall not have the girl An if he wanted her. And yet if not, I hate him more, that he can spoil the day So lightly. — And the more for it was he Made me a butt before you all — Gabriel A jest! No more. What grievance? People of this part Are used to rougher jesting. Bame You conceal What you are building. Gabriel Under simple thatch! Bame Come, you are fair. Gabriel Well, then I will speak out. This is my first thought. My maid is not one Whose whims or fancies are to be set down By russet folk. She may think as she will: I do receive it. I could no more dream Of climbing up a wall to peer and pry Into the garden of her mind, than steal The blossoms from her father's orchard-close To rob him half a harvest. Go your way, And I'll go mine. — 'T is all with you, to-day. Enter from the lower door of the inn, Dame Benet. Bame goes to inn- steps and turns. Bame Take thought once more. Gabriel I will take thought once more: And if need be, why once more after that! [Exit Bame, right. [Benet recovers her carrots and beans, from the bench; sits down, and prepares them. Gabriel stands against the arbor-trellis beside her, abstracted and gloomy. Benet This were a pretty tale now, Master Andrew! What would The Bee-Hive do without you then? Gabriel Why, when, dame? Benet Lack! So far away, are ye? Why, when you take to farming once again, In Canterbury. Gabriel Oh, 't is years away — If I should do so ever. I was dreaming. 'T was hearing of — old Barnby — set my wits Veering to homeward like a weather-cock. Tell me, is Master Marlowe hereabout? Benet Until the day is over, who can tell? There is no dial for these player-folk And poets. 'T is all Swallow-while-you-may! When they are paid, why so am I, betimes. Then to The Bee-Hive, oh, I warrant ye — They swarm to me; for there is no such ale Brewed nor cakes baken, here in all the Borough; And that they know. But when the times will change, And they split quills with writing of bad plays And get scant payment as all such deserve, — Then to The Merry Friar; to The Owl! — Until your Owl will none of them, — so down, To some I never name. Gabriel The tide will turn. Benet And peacock moult. 'Ods life! Such velvet clothes, And footmen bringing messages all day From Lady Here and There. And yet tomorrow, Gone, like last Mayday, where? Your peacock hides Throughout a moulting season. Gabriel But this Marlowe, He is the best of them? Come, is he not? Benet Best? What is best? This 'Faustus' paid his score. I doubt not't was a play — but there be plays Of far more noise than that. He will make free, As if he built The Bee-Hive! Now he'll pay, And now he'll owe. He is not given to talk With me. — I do hear tales of him. They say He is a fearsome Atheistical. Gabriel Do they say that? Bah, dame! What right have men To spread abroad this pestilent They-Say, And take us with infection ere we know? I care not for this Marlowe, good or ill; But yet I have a left-hand, country-bred, Shuffling affection to a slandered devil; — Comes of a zeal for driving my own kick Where my own wit shall aim. Benet Ay, ay, now there; This is discourse. [The Boy appears at the lower door Boy Have ye the lentils ready? Gabriel Say, now, is Marlowe like to be about, To-day? Benet Who knows? This moment or next year. Boy (entering) She's calling for the lentils. [Takes trencher. Benet Here, you boy! — It shall not leave my sight. Boy (going) Come after, then! [Exit Boy by the lower door, followed by Dame Benet in haste. Gabriel, after a pause, turns decisively and exit by the postern-gate. Immediately after, reënter Bame from the Inn. He pauses on the lowest step, speaking back. Alison appears in the doorway. Bame (lagging) Nay, if I must go back — But blame not me, If the day goes awry. I did not think You set such store by our Dame Benet here, To send me to the stairs again to find A paltry hood. It was not in my thought, And so I left it with the waterman; — But if you made it, 't is another thing. I will go back. [Alison comes down the steps. Alison And I will wait for you, Here. Bame (sullenly) — Will you so? I did not know you were So fond on Benet ... Alison She did much befriend me The day we came to London. Young as I, She saith she doth not see us often here; And so I made that keepsake with all care, To show her I remembered. Master Bame, Why will you be so dark with me? Bame I'll go And find the bargeman. Shall I find you here, When I come back? 'T is cooler than indoor. Alison Sure I will wait. [He watches her come down, then exit Bame hurriedly by way of the Inn. Ah me, but I will wait! How long, how long, with nothing else to do? But I am here again. — It cannot seem The way I saw the threshold that first day, Before the world began. Why, it was he Told me I looked a very new-comer, And laughed, and guessed a little of the truth, How new it was to me; but yet not all. (Beside the arbor.) O little vine, I wonder if the first Long draught of rain when you are budding first, May be like that? — The first high noon? I love you, — I know not why; I love you. Dear you were And pleasant to me, ever; but I think I never saw before. He called me Eve. I took it for a jest, but now indeed I think I never lived at all before. God made me only now! ... Oh, here again, — Again where he is — [Noise in the street of laughter and men's voices. Alison looks from the posterngate to the Inn, between fear and delight, shrinking behind the shrubs and hop-vines. Marlowe's voice is heard from the unseen group in the street. Oh, not now — not yet! ... Yes, listen, listen, listen! — Mother of God! My prayer is answered, and I cannot stay, — I cannot stay. [Gate opens. Enter Marlowe, speaking back. He shuts the gate. Marlowe No, no I tell you, no. This is my hour. — No, no, another time! Leave me alone. [He stretches his arms and comes down indolently. He has a book in his hand. He enters the arbor, and sits; opens the book, pulls a leaf or two from the vine, reads a bit, leaning his arms on the table before him; then shuts his eyes and after a heavy sigh or two, falls asleep. — Alison, listening in an agony of suspense, peers through the vine-covered lattice, left. She shakes the vine softly and he does not stir. She speaks in a very low voice, with rapturous wistfulness. Alison Do you not hear? Praise God, he is asleep. But I have seen him. — Ah, so you can tire, Yes, even you. Oh, this is more than I Could dare to pray for, — that you should be near And never see me. She is grown more patient, This Alison. Ah, if I only knew — But I do know: I'm walking in a dream. I saw — I heard. Did I not hear enough? I'm nothing: only eyes to watch for you. I'm nothing, only silence. [Sobbing into the vine. If I dared To wake you and to ask you what it meant: Oh, if I only dared to give you — now — [He stirs, turning his face towards her. She is motionless for a second. But he sleeps. Why am I such a nothing, with no gift? I who would keep you guarded if I might, From all things ill. Oh, if I were the Moon, How I would shine upon you, brow so dear, How white your dreams would be — Oh, guard him well, For me — for me. Enter from the Inn, Gabriel Andrew. Gabriel Is Master Marlowe there? [Alison retreats, left, behind the hop-vines. Alison (apart) What, Gabriel? Oh, how shall I begone? Gabriel (coming down) Heigh-ho! I've spoiled a dream for you, I see. Marlowe (waking) Yes, true enough. Nay, sit. 'T is not my garden, Although I lord it, of an afternoon, In dreams and out of them. A patch of green Must serve us for an Eden. Gabriel Ay, sometimes. And yet when I do plant my garden-plot Of Eden, I would have it further off From here. Marlowe Oho, in Canterbury! Gabriel (reluctantly) Ay. Does your mind go there? Alison (apart, rapturously) He remembers all! Enter quickly from the Inn, Bame. He comes down to the arbor and sees only Marlowe and Gabriel talking. Alison is hidden. He casts a suspicious glance about. Gabriel Well, Master Richard Bame? Bame Give you good-day. Marlowe What do you lack? Bame Something I lost but now. [Exit into the Inn. Gabriel puzzled. Alison (apart) Alas, poor man, I meant to keep my word, Indeed. Marlowe It is the most aggrievèd devil! I cannot walk out, of a holiday, But I must run against his raven-beak Croaking above some harvest. Hath a grudge Against me, — what, I know not. Well, your worm Must needs be here to make it Holy Eden. Gabriel You spoke of home. I wonder now — Wouldst ever, If the way came, think to go back again To live? Marlowe My kindred do not yearn for me. Gabriel Nay, but perchance if you do yearn to have The downs again, and all the comely ways You spoke of; and the cherry orchards too, As poets may, tho' I know nothing of it! — That song of shepherds you were bound to sing, It will have been a song now, as I guess, Only for singing; but you cherished it. Marlowe What song? 'Come live with me, and be my Love'? Marry, you good old homebodies have ears Of kindlier welcome to a madrigal Than I dreamed, ever. I remember now. The little Quietude was full of wonder Her tongue refused to tell, at that same song. Gabriel The little Quietude? — Marlowe Your Kentish maid, The Eva of this Eden, to whom I sang. She had great eyes — [Alison rapt. Gabriel (heavily) — The little Quietude. Marlowe And silken hair. She was all made of stuff Too fine for country wear. I marvel Nature Who plans such ruddy milk-maids, should have set A hand to make that lonely masterpiece Among the hop-fields. Why, she was a maid Of crystalline! If you looked near enough, You'd see the wonder changing in her eyes Like parti-colored marvels in a brook, Bright through the clearness! Gabriel — Ay, 't is Alison; As like as if you saw her, to read off What's in her face. Now I could never say. Marlowe And do you see her, now? Gabriel (dully) She hath a cousin Over in Cherry Lane — and — Alison (apart, hidden in the shrubs) Gabriel dear! Marlowe Oh, 't is the cousin, then! Ay, trust a man Bred in the fields to lose his wit in London, And take up with some painted city-madam Would give her hope of a celestial throne For that swan-quiet, and the morning gaze! Heigh-ho, you farmers, living face to face With the untarnished loveliness of Earth And with no eyes to see it! Sullen red Of sunset and dove-plumage of the dawn Are weather, weather, weather! — and the Wind That bloweth where it listeth — ha, brave Wind! Muzzle it, would you? — lest it should make free With the young orchards! Why, for this same maid, Her name might be — [She listens rapturously, nearer and nearer. Gabriel — The little Quietude. But you should see her sometimes when she laughs. 'T is like — I cannot say. Well, you can say Whatever comes to mind, and more, belike. Marlowe I could do honor to Her Quietude Till song run dry! Gabriel — So then. You love her? [Alison stands with her eyes shut. Marlowe Love? Gabriel Marlowe Do I love her? Gabriel Is it Yea or Nay? [Marlowe laughs long. Marlowe Come, tell me; do you love the Evening Star? But that's a riddle, man. — I know to thee It is a timely taper, lighted high Before the curfew bell! Gabriel (fighting off his relief) You love her not? Well, then. I know not why I talk so long Of all these things apart. I was but thinking; You spoke of home, and you can see her face And talk of it such wise, I thought — may-hap, — They being my neighbors there at home, I thought — If't were your mind to take up life again And have our maid to share it — if it were, I might so do you service — speak a word, Seeing I know her father. Alison (apart) — Gabriel! Gabriel And as you mind, at home your quality Are held in less esteem than — [Marlowe still laughs. Alison (apart) Gabriel! — Marlowe Come, is it I? — Good sooth! I tell thee, man, I like thee; come! Gabriel (rising) What laughter is in this? Marlowe None, none, but all in me! Nay, come sit down. [He leaves the arbor, and goes to the steps of the Inn to call. Hey, there, — bring out a tankard. [Returns, and continues to move up and down, talking animatedly, while Alison is driven back to her hiding-place. It is now sunset. Come, give ear, And I will teach thee a philosophy Shall save thee many a making of thy mind, To ravel out thereafter. I'll be plain. I asked thee, would one love the Evening Star? To thee it was a riddle. Listen, then: What is all Love but I-Will-Have, Will-Have! What I must have, — I love. And I will have it. But for the Evening Star, I have it, there. [Pointing to the sky. I would not have it nearer. Is that Love, As thou dost understand? — Yet is it mine As I would have it: to look down on me, Not loving and not cruel; to be bright, Out of my reach; to lighten me the dark When I lift eyes to see, and in the day To be forgotten. — But of all things, far! Far-off, beyond me, else it were no star. Gabriel Ay, that's a star. A woman, then — Marlowe A woman? A woman must be near, to be a Woman! Dreams change their color as they leave the stars For this engrossing air that folds the world. The birds fly lower, lower, to a nest; The small uncounted brightnesses, that fleck The thwarted sunbeam with such lively gold, Settle into a kindly earth again, — The dust that men are made of! Glory close, Love near at hand? — Must-Have, Will-Have, indeed! World beauty not to dream of but to hold, — Woman! What else? Gabriel And wilt thou love no woman? They say not so of thee. Marlowe Oh, leave 'They Say'! I serve a lady so imperial fair, June paled when she was born. Indeed no star, No dream, no distance, but a very woman Wise with the argent wisdom of the Snake; Fair nurtured with that old forbidden fruit That thou hast heard of. It was made for her, Oh, and she eats thereof and lives forever! And what she is and breathes, that Will I Have; Yes, — though the fruit were twenty times forbidden, Yes, by a God who should walk here and now, — Here in the garden in the cool of the day, Yes! — I would eat, and have all human joy, And know — and know. My kingdom of the air, I have it: spaces where no thought may rest, Unfooted heaven lighted by lone stars, And gulf on gulf of dark. But here is Earth; And Earth I will have too, and we will leave The garden-place together, under the Frown! — And smiling back upon the flaming sword, Out of the closure. — Love! — [Stir in the Inn, and voices. Gabriel ready to leave the arbor. Alison behind the vines, exhausted. Alison Ah, God forgive this pitiful eaves-dropper! — I am so much the wiser. Let me go, Home. Enter from the Inn, the playwrights, Nashe and Lodge, followed by the Boy with a tankard, and Peele carrying the cups. Gabriel (going) Well, I will bid you — Nashe (meeting him) Whither away so fast? Who pays the score? Lodge Come, come, our old friend Andrew! [The two conduct Gabriel back to the arbor. Alison looks for some way of escape and returns to her hiding-place. Boy sets down tankard and exit. Nashe Face it out with us! If we go alone, Kit, here, will pelt us with his dithyrambs. Know you these dithyrambs? 'T is a green plum Sweet in the mouth, but in the belly bitter, Like the little book within the little Book Our pious Kit doth swear by. Lodge You shall drink God-speed to me! I go upon a voyage. Peele Alas, dear Tom, now after all this going — Nashe At last he goes. And we, a year in wait Drinking Farewell and Yet-again-good-bye! And more Godspeed, and so Your-safe-return! — But now it seems he's going. Marlowe Where is Robin? [A cuckoo-call from the street. Lodge Ask not, Discretion. Nay, it cannot be. O hardy Robin, even under ban! [Greene climbs over the postern-gate and comes down cautiously. Greene Is my sweet Hostess there? Or doth she dream Within, and dream of me? — Bah, what is she? I'm a new man. Go tell her with my scorns, I'm at The Mermaid. Nashe Liest, — Robin Redhead! 'T is a good twelve-month since The Mermaid saw thee. Greene Tell her The Mermaid hath such company, I never show my head there, when my wits Are rusty. Then I burrow in The Bee-Hive, A dull, safe place! And tell her that my wits Are damaged by the quality of her ale. — Once was I the salt of wit. But now ye see I'm damaged. Fellows all, say if I be not? Peele Ay, ay, good Robin. Lodge So thou art. Peele Come, come. [He pours the ale at the arbor table, singing carelessly. Marlowe sits to left of the table, Gabriel beside him; Lodge outside, with his back towards the vines; Nashe within the arbor. Greene comes down to th e bench just outside the arbor. Peele (singing). If you have a heart, you break it; Have a purse, a knave will take it. Therefore wise men all beware! Save your head, but nothing in it, Spend an hour and waste a minute: Nothing have, and have no care. Nothing keep, for there's a plenty! Fill the bowl, but drink it empty. Hey, lo-lo! Sing Nothing with a Naught! When I was born, 't was Nothing I brought. And when I leave this world of thought, May the devil take me if I take aught! [Under cover of the noise, Alison tries to steal out. It is twilight. But Greene hears the leaves shake, and catches a glimpse of her behind the vines. She retreats in haste and clings there, quiet and watchful. Greene Soft, soft! [He begins to sing romantically, accompanying himself upon an imaginary lute, and keeping an eye on the vines. (Singing.) Her cheek is hawthorn and her voice the rain; Her eyes are window lights that never wane, So morning-clear. Alas, dear April, when she comes again, Shall I be here? Marlowe He's mad, poor Robin! Greene — 'Sh! Don't startle her. (Singing.) For she is kind as all the fields are fain, And she will cheer the grass with sun and rain, And cowslips dear. Alas, sweet April, when they spring again, Shall I be here? Soft — soft — Marlowe What do you see? Greene (boisterously) A farthingale! [Laughter. Gabriel starts and takes thought. Lodge This is The Bee-Hive, Robin, — you should know! Peele — Where? Where? Greene What is a hive without a queen? Come all, — a serenade! — Each man his own. [In great good spirits, but not noisily, they burst into song, each man his own melody, making a cheerful tangle of noises. Gabriel moves cautiously towards the front of the arbor. Marlowe (singing) 'Come live with me, and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, Woods or steepy mountains, yields. 'And we will sit upon the rocks Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.' Nashe (singing) O let me win some warmth within, And then I will be merry, For Grief is but a chilly thief Grows fat in February. Hey, hey! Ho-ho! 'T was ever so, Since Adam ate the cherry. Lodge (singing) With 'But' and 'But' and good 'What-if' I still make shift to tarry. The man who cannot cheer him so, Oh, let him go drown or marry! Greene (singing) Hey, merry maid! Leave your lattice window, pretty; Sure to hide you were a pity. Never be afraid. Look forth and see Who it is that comes to borrow. Never wait until to-morrow; Come and kiss — me! [During this mingled singing, Gabriel comes down close to Alison. She starts back. Gabriel (with compassion) Stay — stay! 'T is only Gabriel. — Alison (faintly) Ask me not — Gabriel I will ask nothing, sweet. Alison No, Gabriel, no! Gabriel Dear child, come home, — come home. [Behind the vines, he disposes her scarf about her face; steps forth from the shrubbery and turns toward the postern-gate. The playwrights leave their seats, amazed utterly. Peele — Now, here was shyness! Nashe The country-man? O moral upside down! Greene (calling) Stop, Angel Gabriel! Stop, disciple Andrew! Only a word to ease my mind, — one word! Was it thy sweetheart? Gabriel (turning, between Alison and the playwrights) Ay. [Exeunt Gabriel and Alison by the gate. Marlowe Who was the girl? You saw her face? — Well, by the shooting stars! Nashe Sweet opportunity, she passeth by. Lodge Oh, the lost Pleiad! Greene (singing with the others) 'When she comes again, Shall I be here?' ACT III SCENE: A tavern in Deptford. — A lapse of three years between Acts II. and III. — It is a shabby interior, with scores scrawled in chalk upon smoky walls and wainscot. — Doorway centre giving on the street. From right to centre at back, the corner of the room is cut off in a series of casement windows, all open, showing a bench outside against the inn wall; and a distance. Beside this casement, a table and a seat. Books on the table, ink-horn and quills. — Left, up, door leading into tap-room. Against the wall, other tables with draughtboards, etc. — It is afternoon. Discovered at rise, LODGE, looking bronzed and somewhat older, on the threshold. He enters, looks about, peers out of the casement, sees and tries the quills; opens a book; smile and turns a few pages. Lodge HIS. They were right: he must be here. [Calling. Holà! Enter from the tap-room, Richard Bame; on seeing Lodge, he pause s and makes as if to go off again. Eh, not mine host? Stay, do I know thy face? [Bame faces him. Why, surely, — Richard Bame. Bame (with constraint) Ay, Richard Bame. You are home again. Lodge After a sorry voyage, To a worse home-coming. Nothing but the plague! — The sickness widens round our city-haunts Like rings around a pebble. They do tell me There's scarce a player to be found in London. Bame Ay, they are out of work, the feathered ones! And we that have no feathers, — out of work. Lodge Drowned out by all this tolling of the bells — Bame And pageants of the dead men. Lodge (turning to the casement) Here's fresh air! — And Marlowe's here? Odd chance. I never used To look for him but you were thereabout, You, who mislike all players and all poets! [Looking out of the casement. Bame I like — to hear him talk. [Between his teeth. Lodge — And Canterbury? Enter Host. Bame There is no news of late. I come to-day Looking to meet old Barnby when he passes. Deptford is come to be the market now For South o' London. Host Ay, the countrymen Cannot go nearer to the city folk. They sell their poultry in the open fields Here, while the sickness rages. Ay, fat times For Deptford, — if our dock yards were not full O' journeymen and sailors out o' work. These were fat times for Deptford! Still, — no shows, No wandering singers now, no plays, no baitings. 'Prentices, players, all with naught to do, And seamen roving free! Your rope-makers, Idle all day ... Enter Jermyn, from the street. Bame makes him a sign to keep silence. He enters and comes down to meet Bame. Host leads Lodge towards doorway, while Bame and Jermyn stand watching them out of the way. Lodge I will wait here awhile For Master Marlowe. Know you not the name? Host (cautiously) There be some fellow — of some name like this — Is wont to come here of an afternoon And sit there by the lattice, gazing out. 'Oweth me much. But I do let him sit Freely, for nothing, an he will be quiet. [Lodge looks at him in bewilderment, then goes to the doorway and steps out. Host follows to discourse with apparent anxiety. They talk apart just outside the door. Fermyn (to Bame) It is her Ladyship would have me say She is beholden to your evidence, For all the court; altho' they do not know. But this will have him barred from the Queen's Players. My Lady bids me have you greatly thanked For your true zeal — against this atheist — And sends you here — [Holding out a purse. Bame (pushing it away) No, no! I'll none of it. Fermyn Not as a price; yet for thy pains to follow, And keep close track on all his blasphemies. Thou hast the paper setting forth the same? Give it to me. — The man is dangerous. [Bame produces a document from his coat. And this same writ may serve to stop his mouth, Another day! Give me the writ. So. Witnessed? [Reads. 'A Note containing the Opinion of Christopher Marlowe' — Bame Silence! — Come apart. It is to keep — Fermyn Until the time be ripe. — 'That he persuadeth men to atheism' — [Glances through it. And thou wilt swear that thou hast heard it all? Bame Day in, day out, from his own lips I have it, Over his meat and drink with other men. — Sworn, laughed, and sung! There's nothing out of reach To make them bow, — there's nothing left too high! But the created Earth, and God that made, Are level with the laughter and the dregs. Fermyn (still reading) And you will testify? Bame Take it! — have done. [Exit Jermyn, left. Reënter Host and Lodge Host (pointing through casement) Look, there he comes. Lodge (boyishly, standing away from the casement, with his back to Bame). He knows not I am here! — [Bame watches the casement for a moment, clenching his hands with bitter exultation, then exit noiselessly into tap-room. Marlowe appears outside the window, walking slowly. He is greatly altered, haggard, pale, somewhat shabby. The Host lingers, curiously. Enter Marlowe. With the same unseeing abstraction, he passes Lodge, goes to the chair by the casement, sits down, and looks out as if watching for something. Lodge Kit! — Art asleep, man? — Hast no word for me? Marlowe (after looking at him) Ay, is it Tom? I had thought it was some trick Of fancy; or thy ghost. — So, is it Tom? Lodge (clapping him, vexedly) I have a mind to wake thee in good sooth! — I am just landed these few days ago, — After the seven plagues, — to one plague more; And here's a welcome! — Here's a cheek, an eye, A humor! Do I know thee? Is it thou? Marlowe Eyes? Worn with watching. Cheek, indifferent lean. Humor? Time wears. You should know that, explorer. You find us, Second Son, in moulting season. Talk not of me. — But you — [Exit HOST. Lodge But all of us! Where's Dekker now? Marlowe Redeemed again, last week; Dick Henslowe paid. So, while the sickness wears, He's patching plays to earn some wherewithal To patch a doublet! Lodge Ay, old Tom. And Ben? Marlowe Married. Lodge There's Ben! And is there news of Will — Marlowe I know not. He is come to print of late With a sometime poem, 'Venus and Adonis.' Nashe? gnashing with his teeth! — but you have heard. And now our Lyly languisheth. Lodge And Greene. — Alas, poor Robin! Marlowe Ay, you well may say, Poor Robin! But for pity of his end, I could still rate him for the pious stuff He wrote a-dying! — Had he saved his breath, He had made it last the longer! Bah, let be. He's dead, poor Robin. — Dead of nothing-ness, And the ten thousand follies. End the drone. He was a Poet, as the mire can tell. And the poor keeper of that uttermost den Did honor to his wreck as beggars may, And crowned him with a laurel. Thankless brow Of death, that could not feel! — But it was there. [Looks out of the casement again. Lodge What dost thou see there, Kit? Marlowe Why, dust, Tom, dust. Lodge Kit, I had something I would say to thee, But thou art in no mood to hear it now. I'll to the dock, and I will come again — Marlowe (rising) When I have cast my shell? Nay, — nay, go not. Thy news was nothing good. So much I know. Lodge There have been foolish rumors in my ears, Even in these few days — some old wives' tale Of painted devils; yet these frighten some! Why wilt thou mar thine image? Marlowe (impatiently) Is it marred? Along then, with the rest! Lodge You know me better. Enter from street, Rowse a sailor, and several Taverners. They go into the tap-room. The open door lets in some noise of roistering. — A jangle of horses' bells is heard approaching. Marlowe points to the bench outside the window. Exeunt Marlowe with Lodge, centre. They are seen to pass the window and to sit talking without, as the inn-yard noises increase. Reënter from tap-room Host, and exit, centre. After him Bame in haste. Enter from street, old Barnby, dusting off his frock. Barnby Well, Master Richard, I was nigh to miss you! I'm homeward bound. — Ay, home's the happier After those borders. — Eh? No sickly air With us, sir! Bame True enough. I have a mind To go along with you, may-hap — Barnby (troubled) Ay, so? Bame What tidings? There will be some? — Tell me, sir. Barnby Tidings enow. 'T is tidings bid me stop. I would not have ye come by all the news Through any other man. Well, clap my hand And take it manly. Thou wilt wish her joy. Our Alison is wed. A month ago, On Easter Monday; Alison is wed ... Ay, Gabriel wins; and thou wilt wish him well. So, so. I know thou 'st counted on the lass, And many another man. — A month ago. Bame (wildly to himself) So it was all for nothing! — All for nothing! Barnby Take it not thus. Bame For nothing — nothing — nothing! Barnby I marvel ye had patience to hold out This good three year. — A maid like Alison To wear me out three harvest-times and sigh, A-making of her mind! But she is wed, And happily; and thou wilt wish them well, Like every honest man. There be not many Such as our Alison! — Nay, nay, there be! The fields are full of them, — no downcast looks. There be a score o' wenches still in Kent As good as — mark, in Kent — no other place; And we will have thee wed. Bame — Talk not of that. Barnby Come out and drink a pot of ale to them. Bame Another day. Prithee go see the host. — Farewell. Barnby Ay, ay, now. Take it manly, lad. [Backing away with an anxious eye on Bame. Reënter Lodge and Marlowe. Exit Barnby, centre. Bame, turning suddenly, sees the two men. Bame So. You have heard it all. Lodge (gloomily) O man, man, man! There be some things to listen to, beside Thee and thy business. Bame Do not put me by; I say he heard. Marlowe Heard what? — And if, what then? Bame (fiercely) Why, the wheel turns, and it shall grind thee too! — Thou wilt not have her. [Marlowe looks at Lodge. Lodge Peace. The fellow's mad. Bad news has turned his brain. Bame Stand off from him. No feigning now! — ye heard it all. She's wed To Gabriel Andrew — wed to him — at last, Through thee, through thee. Marlowe What is all this to me? Bame It shall be something yet. I saw thee first, Ay, from the first day when you cheated them With tales of old acquaintance, and made fond, And charmed the eyes of her, and took her heart, But for a whim. — Oh, I was not far off! Tho' you had made me a butt before them all, And turned her favor from the laughing-stock. Nothing to you it was! — All other folk, — Their homes, so many ant-hills! — All the world A show for you, a cheaper show than yours; — A pageant wagon, — with the people, here, And overhead, their angels and their God, Another show! — And you to laugh at all. Laugh, laugh! Whatever 't was, 't is all gone by, Never to laugh at more. But I can tell you, Oh, I can tell you, now it is too late, That she was pining for you. — Now she's wed. Alison's gone! You will not have her now. Ah, now you are no more to her than I! [Murmuring. The spell is broken. She would see you now But what you are — a strolling devilry, A knave and a blasphemer, Atheist! Marlowe The fellow's mad. But mad-men should be bound. Call me what names your rage will foam in, fool, But never cut me with that lash of spite The pious use! 'T were much to thy discredit. Be thy poor venom, venom. Hate and hate! — Seek not to find a reason. [Bame staggers to the door of the tap-room and exit. — 'Atheist' While such do name me so, I wear the name As proudly as an honor. — 'Atheist.' Lodge Ah, Kit, too many hands have got this lash Against thee. Here it is, to bear me out. The common voice is risen. Thou canst hear In that man-hunting tumult, every threat, From the indignant cry of simple folk Stung by thy jesting, even to the hiss Of a trodden worm. But now, forbidden, — barred From the Queen's Players! — Marlowe So I am turned out. Lodge Out of the Court, thou seest, with all disfavor. How did it go so far? [Marlowe shrugs his shoulders, looking out of the window. I beg thee, listen. What now? More dust? Marlowe Ay, dust turned into woman. [Her Ladyship is seen to pass the casement. — 'My Lady Hush.' — Go not. It is soon over. [Lodge falls back. Marlowe comes down, step by step, half turning his face to the door as if he were drawing some one after him. Her Ladyship appears in the door-way with a falcon on her wrist, and a riding-mask in the other hand. On the instant Lodge slips out of the casement, right, into the court, and disappears. Marlowe faces the doorway squarely. — Enter Her Ladyship: she blows a little silver whistle. Enter Jermyn. Her Ladyship (to Jermyn, holding forth the falcon) Take her; and see thou make the jess secure. 'T was basely mended. Bring it to me here, And speedily. [Exit Jermyn, left. [Her Ladyship comes down a step or two towards Marlowe. I would not have you think that I am come In answer to a summons. Marlowe No indeed! Her Ladyship I have been slow to teach you as I should; Trying the tedious way of silence. Marlowe Ay, Most tedious! But I would not understand. Her Ladyship And since your importunity would still Beat at the gate, nor take no word from reason, Last, I have come as you demanded of me. Demanded, sooth! — Marlowe Forgive the violence Of a charlatan who doubts his art at length, Reluctant Helena! Her Ladyship No more of this. Your fantasy outwears the day of welcome; And you are grown too arrogant. You own No height above your own vain-glorious spirit That threatens everything. It is too plain, — Your climbing blasphemy. Marlowe Ay, let me hear. Is this the charge against me from your lips? — Why I am barred? — And I have wounded you This long time with my godless pride of thought! — I am thus slow to take it for my eyes Detected not your suffering loyalty To the true Faith. Her Ladyship Be bitter, if you must. I would have warned you, but 't is late to warn. Take a last word: come not about the Court. Your reasonings are known there; they are known — Marlowe To the Queen's Players. [She starts. So: keep from the Court. My reasonings are known. — I am in danger. You come to warn me of it? Her Ladyship You have heard. Marlowe Why do you fear me? Her Ladyship Nay, I fear you not. Marlowe Why do you fear the world? Her Ladyship I fear it not. Marlowe No, no? The world nor me? Then why no: say, 'T is all because you love me not? — Because Now you would have me hence? — O Helena, How cheaply at the last you sell your God! Thirty pieces of silver, I had sworn Would be too little! Ah, but not for you. Not even with a kiss, but with a lie, You shew me how you rate Him, — all of you! I waited for the reason. There had been A chance to make you glorious with some truth, And me to blink at unaccustomed gold: A brave 'I love you not, — I wish you gone!' — Such valor of the devil as he respects! But this poor coinage of an outcast metal, Stamped with God's image! Ha, deny Him, I? What have I seen of Him that I should know Where He is or is not? I have searched the mire And found Him not, indeed; and for such temples As Holy Writ would have it that He dwells in, Look you, how cold and empty! — Cold, not pure. No flame of heaven or hell, — no fire at all. [She shrinks backward. He follows step by step. Deny Him, I? And thou, dost thou affirm? — Living denial! — Gentle blasphemy! [She lifts her riding-mask to her face: he catches it from her and holds it aloft. Will you begone? Nay, hear my parting word. Unmask you, Helen. — Truly you must go The way of dreams. Will you believe you live? No, no, I think not, no indeed, not you! The fire burns out and leaves the ashes there, The cock crows and the spirits must begone. I took you for a Woman, thing of dust, — I — I who showed you first what you might be! But see now, you were hollow all the time, A piece of magic. Now the air blows in, And you are gone in ashes. Well, begone! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! — Nay, go. [He flings the mask across the room. Her Ladyship before the threshold watches him a second, then blows the little silver whistle. Reënter Jermyn with the falcon. They look at each other Fermyn I have the jesses mended. Her Ladyship (suavely) ... And the Writ? [Exeunt Her Ladyship and Jermyn. [Lodge reappears at casement, peers after them, then enters by the window and hastens toward Marlowe. Seeing the mask, he picks it up. Lodge Stay, what is here? Shall I go after her? Marlowe There's nothing to go after. 'T is a mask; All that is left of something that did seem A most rare woman. — Remnant of black art, O riddle of the world! (Taking the mask.) Behold her here. Behold, the place for eyes to beckon through; Here the red mouth that spoke reproaches to me, Yes, in behalf of God! — Consider, look; 'T was this that would convert me. Small and black; The headsman wears another. [Flings it away. Lodge 'T is over, then? Thou dost not love her? Marlowe No Lodge Nor for this long time? Marlowe No. Lodge Nor ever? Marlowe — No! Lodge Then break my soul if I may understand! — Art thou the man to fall into despair Over some lie, some game of hide-and-seek This Madam plays? Nay, tell me; there is more. Marlowe More, is there? What? Lodge — Never tell me these buffets Of a poor harvest, or a heavy rain, Dismay thee, arrogant devil of us all! But here I find thee, Kit, inscrutable In thy torn splendors. Marlowe H'm! Torn splendors, are they? Torn splendors, — 't is a phrase; and gorgeous threadbare; Fine ruin. Well? Lodge Speak out. There is yet more. Never tell me a woman's falsity Comes like a thunder-clap at this late day. Marlowe It was not the one woman. It was all. She meant the world, — the world. Lodge (eagerly) Well, there's the sky! Whip up the horses of the Sun; be bold. There's thy dominion. What hast thou to do With tangibles? — I quote thee to thyself. Whatever is or is not on the ground, Make to thyself some image of the air. Thou art a master-architect. Come, come! — Thou, who couldst speak for 'Faustus,' in the play, Such longings fit to turn a Prodigal, As if thy soul were homesick after God! Marlowe — As if! — Lodge I say, what matters it to thee? Thine own philosophy, thy fame — Marlowe Fame, fame? Forbidden the Queen's Players? — Hounded out By a Court scandal? Nay, hands off the sun! Drone holy, poet, drone or hold thy tongue; Will it not lie? — Be off then, atheist! Lodge This is not like thee. Marlowe (restlessly) — Bah, the plague's about! Here you may see Belshazzar at his feast. [With a grand gesture indicating the tavern. Nor do we lack our writing on the wall, Traced in a fiery hand. [He picks up a piece of chalk from a gaming-table and scrawls some figures on the wain-scot. So, Mene — Mene — Tekel — Upharsin. — Being interpreted, Nine pounds, three shillings, tuppence on the score! [He comes down, abstractedly tossing the piece of chalk. What is there left? Give the poor worm its triumph. I will go back to Sodom. Lodge (laughing) Not for this! Man, man, what is it now that thou Must-Have, Having had all? — I tell thee thou art sour'd To hear the little country-maid is wed, As the poor devil clamored in thine ears! Marlowe So she is wed. Lodge And therefore safe and precious. Come, think upon a far removèd fairness That is not thine; and bring dead beauty back. Marlowe Dead beauty. Nay, the plague hath every-thing. Lodge The plague hath thee! I swear thou shalt not spread Infection so: come here and take thy mark. [He catches the bit of chalk, then scores a cross heavily on Marlowe's breast, laughing. Here is a warning for good honest folk. — The man is stricken. — 'Lord Have Mercy Upon Us!' Nay ... [Marlowe moves away from him, staring fiercely. Marlowe (in a low voice) — Wilt thou open that raw curse? — Hands off! Lodge What hath — Marlowe — Hands off. Lodge I hurt — Marlowe Hands off, I say! [Rubbing the mark. It will not out — it will not out? So, so. Stay then, and every devil may come to hear, And heaven may have its laugh! — I ever speak As if there were a Something there to listen: The shadow of the little mind, grotesque, Confident, helpless, thrown upon the clouds To serve him for a god. And I have sworn There is no God. — Ah, but there should be one! There should be one. And there's the bitterness Of this unending torture-place for men; For the proud soul who craves a Perfectness That might out-wear the rotting of all things Rooted in earth, that bloom so piercing fair A little while, a little while, — O God, The little while! ... No, something, something perfect, man or beast! What is it all, without? — And what's a man? To go a blind way seeking here and there, Spending and spending for the Beautiful, On shams and shows, and clay that worms devour; Banquet of famine, till all's gone, all's gone; And he is fain to fill that tortured craving With husks the swine do eat. — Almighty Void! And there is nothing there for me to curse, In this despair. I tell thee, I have come Unto a horror no man dreams upon. Nothing is left and nothing is, to curse. For you may hear the crying of the wind, Crying despair and darkness round the earth, Without a hope of rest. But who has caught That torturer by the gray, ancient locks, Or who can stab the wind? Hast ever thought Of the thirst of hatred with no thing to hate? Here, here behold me with my enemy! — The Void. Lodge (sadly) I have no answer for you. Marlowe No. None; there is none. Reënter Bame from the tap-room, in a daze. There is no pilgrimage; No answer and no healing, and no hope. How simple, if there were a shrine for me Beyond some journey; as the pilgrims went, So late, to Canterbury! — But for me There is no shrine. Bame (coming down) Thou shalt not think of that. Thou shalt not go, I tell thee. Lodge Peace! — Go where? Who talks of going? Bame (cunningly) Nay, I am not fooled. He thinks to go to Canterbury now, Now that it is too late. 'The shrine,' saith he! Oh, that would be a jest; but I will warn them ... Pilgrimage, pilgrimage! Eh, denier of God? Thou shalt not go. Marlowe What's this I shall not do? Bame Thou shalt not find her. [Exit. Marlowe Shall I not, in faith! Mad-men have wit. — There's one thing left to see, — The little Shrine. We called her that. — Tom Lodge, Dost thou remember her? — The clearest eyes I ever looked into; nay, the first eyes I ever saw deep down unto the well! And what was that he babbled of her first, — That she was mindful of me? — [It is sunset. Lodge Ay, come, come. There is some virtue breathing in the world. Give up your dark dreams, all, unto their grave. Look not upon them now; but tell yourself You hail the summons of 'Bring-out-your-dead,' And leave a piteous burthen. — Pluck up heart! Here's the free air, and sunset and the May: Fill you with freshness. — Why, the summer's here. Marlowe Wait; I will see. Dost thou remember her? A little figure, standing white and shy, Like those above the Portal there at home, On the Cathedral. And by now — by now — (harshly) What wilt thou wager? She is worn with rain And sodden leaves. There's nothing lovely left. The storms have hurt her fairness, — and perhaps Her hands are broken. She was beautiful; And so there is some ruin come upon her. Yes, I will see! Lodge No! To what end were that? Marlowe And if there be no change, then I am saved, Yes, I am saved! She will remember me. Come, I will take the Song I promised her Too long ago. I did forget, — but now I have it all! — I bring my wedding-gift — [Goes to the table and shakes papers out of the books, madly. Yes, she is wed. But what of that? You heard? She had a mind to me. — Oh, but she listened! — And she shall have her song. — And I will have The kiss she would not give me, for a token! Reënter from the tap-room Rowse, five or six Taverners, and the Host. A pilgrimage, a pilgrimage, Tom Lodge! Host What's on? Rowse — Nay, that should be a merry humor! 'A pilgrimage,' says he, 'a pilgrimage'! [Laughter. [Marlowe faces the group with contemptuous enjoyment. They hail his speech delightedly. Marlowe Give ear unto the Preacher: It is written, That for the sake of but one righteous man, A city shall be saved. But I, in truth, Seeing the sickness wear in London yonder, Am sore in doubt to find a perfect soul. [Loud laughter. I have been with you long, and I do think I find it not among you. Rowse — Shall I laugh Like this another twelve-month? Marlowe Who can say? Look to yourselves! — For me, I must be-gone. [To Lodge exultantly over their heads while they cheer. Ay, to the Shrine! — to heal me of my curse. A pilgrimage! ACT IV SCENE: Whitsun-eve near Canterbury, the last of May. Moonrise. Interior of a spacious farmhouse. Casements at back open to the twilight. — A stair to left of centre leading to a gallery above, from which opens a door to an upper chamber. There is a remnant of fire in the open chimney-place left, with a settle against the landing of the stairway, making an ingle nook. Right, a dresser with a few pieces of Tudor silver and a pitcher of water. Rushes on the floor. — Flowering boughs hung about. Door at back, centre. Discovered at rise, ALISON and GABRIEL side by side at the open casement; GABRIEL with his viol. They sing softly together: he humming and occasionally chiming in with a deep note. At intervals there is sound of a cathedral bell from Canterbury. Song SUMMER-MOON, Summer-moon, Bless thy golden face. Come above the downs, now: Do the garden grace. While we are thy care to keep, Bless the field, bless the sheep; Shine on our sleep. While the nightingales do sing, Come, bonny guest. Thy foot-fall is a silver thing, West, — west. Morning goes and afternoon; Summer will be going soon. Ay, Summer-moon! Alison — See. Gabriel She is coming. Alison Just above the trees, The blessed moon. Gabriel — Thanks to our wakening! Ay, 't is a golden. But she cannot give A light like thee. — Come, thou art wearied out. What hast thou done with Hugh and Jennifer? Alison I bade them go and have their Whitsun-ale With all the neighbors. We will watch at home, And let them take their turn of merriment. I am content. [Gabriel puts by his viol. Gabriel A little vigil then; A few hours more, and then 't is the Moon's watch, While Alison may sleep. So the good world Will turn and take its rest. Alison You laugh at me. Oh, the long, long, bright day! I'm wearied out Most sweetly. What a brave font-hallowing It was; and then the morrice-dances there, Around the maypole. — Dost thou see the green Upon the hem of this? — Dear grass of May! Little green kisses on my Whitsun-shoes! And then the neighbors all. — And home with thee. A long, bright day. [They come down to the settle. Gabriel Ay, now we're home again. Alison And still it is so like a bridal time. You keep my eyes wide open with your praise Stolen from the moon. Take care: she may not bless The harvest, goodman! Gabriel I may come to be Some poet-hood, altho' I have few words. Sweet-cheek, I have a mind to say a thing. Alison (drowsily) Say on. Indeed I hear thee. Come, what news? Gabriel Oh, is it so? Do I say nothing then Unless it be some news? Of men or sheep? Well, some day I shall get this trick o' words. Mark what I learn: 't is just the pointing out A family resemblance. If I say, 'Thou art my hawthorn and my marigold, And a white swan moreover,' simple men May say I lie; for thou art not, in faith. But if I say thou 'rt like them, in that all Be goodly things and gladden heart to see, Why this is true; and so I am a poet. But for the things I care to dwell on most, Like other men, — for I am daily wear! — They are Moon and Rose, — and such a Summer-eve. Now mark me what I say: my Moon, my Rose, My own Midsummer-Eve, thou art all these. [He looks into her face, stroking her hair. She is asleep. Eh, half-asleep? Marry, 't is ever so; I wax most eloquent to thy shut eyes. Here is my schooling-hour in gentle speech. I can say over all the things I read, Sweet-one-by-one: marry, 't is ever so; I never tune my tongue while thou art waking! [A pause broken by the sound of steps on the walk and up to the door at back. Enter Barnby Barnby Well, well — [Alison wakes. Alison What, home so soon? Barnby An errand, lass, An errand only; I am off again — Eh, a fine night! — Whom should I meet with now, Only a half hour back, in Mercery Lane, But some one — nay, a friend. 'T is Richard Bame! And he would have me stop and bid thee, lad, To meet him at The Chequers-of-the-Hope, Ay, this same even, to a Whitsun-ale. Alison Bame? Barnby Ay. And do it, lad. The fellow's sore, Thou knowest. I did see him last at Deptford To tell him of thy wedding. — But by this, See you, he plucks up heart to be a man And make his peace with Gabriel. Gabriel I'll go. But why, I wonder, did he not come here? Alison Oh, he were best to see you, Gabriel, Alone. — And come back early. Barnby I'll along With you, lad, to the turning. [Exeunt Barnby and Gabriel. [The twilight rapidly darkens. Alison watches them from the casement. Gabriel's voice is heard singing, as he goes down the road. 'While we are thy care to keep, Bless the field — bless the sheep, Shine on our sleep.' Alison (half-singing as if it were a charm). Summer-Moon, Summer-Moon, Now the day is done; Shed a little silverness Down on Alison. Summer-Moon, Summer-Moon, Since he loves thee well, Bless as I can never do, Gabriel. Heigh-ho! When he is by, I do not mark, But when he's gone the house seems very still. Heigh-ho! — But I'm asleep. [She goes upstairs slowly, humming, and into the upper chamber, closing the door. The place is dark for a moment. A pause; then footsteps on the garden walk. — Some one looks in at the casement; comes to the door and knocks; knocks again loudly. Enter Marlowe. — He goes to the stair and beats upon it with his dagger once or twice, looking about him, half evilly. Above, the door opens slightly. Alison What, Gabriel? Nay, who? — Are you come back again? [He makes no reply. Alison appears in the gallery, without her coif, a lighted candle in her hand. She is uncertain and troubled, but full of calmness. Unable to see who it is, she descends the stairs deliberately, holding the candle high. He watches her. On the last step, she lifts the candle so that the light falls upon his face, and looks at him steadily for a second; then grasps the post of the stair, with a shock of grief and amazement. — 'T is thou! Christopher Marlowe. Marlowe (watching her) Alison. Alison 'T is thou! Marlowe So I am changed, then. Alison Nay, I cannot see. The fire is dying. [She goes to the fire-place. Marlowe Come and look at me. The fire is dead. — Light up the candles here, If thou art feared of shadows! Alison Nay, I am not. Marlowe I frighted you with knocking on the door; Though, sooth to say, sweet friend, no highwayman Would so compel a welcome. — I am changed. Regard me not. — I see you had forgotten My face. Alison No, no; indeed it is not true. Marlowe What irks you then? That I am something pale? Older? — By more, indeed, than these three years. For so youth wears — and damask may grow dull — In sodden weather. Well. But you, you keep The face of Maytime. Let me see it. Alison (with an outburst of compassion) Ah, Thou art all wearied out! Marlowe ... Set down the light. It dazzles. — No. I prithee, pardon me. Yes, I am weary. I have frighted you? You were alone? Alison Ay, they are gone awhile. Marlowe No neighbor near? Nay, Bride! And you alone! Why are you left alone? (winningly) Alison 'T is Whitsun-eve. Marlowe (looking at the boughs) These breathe of holiday. So, Whitsun-eve. They are not bridal then? Alison Oh, we were wed Beyond a month ago. Marlowe The bridal boughs Are faded, are they? — No? But I am late To bring you bridal wishes, though I come: And here's my wedding gift. — Stay — [Feels in his breast. Alison — Oh, it is — Marlowe The Song, 'Come live with me, and be my Love.' Have you forgotten? Alison I! — But you — 't is not — Marlowe (at a loss to find it). Gone? But it is. — I set it down for you In a fair copy; and it is not here. Where should I lose it? — At the inn, belike, Where I did spend some moment but to ask — The road. — I am more a beggar than I dreamed. You should have had the song. Alison Ah, vex you not. Indeed, I have it. [Smiling. Marlowe Where? Alison (simply, touching her heart) It is all here. Marlowe Nay! — It was true, then. — You, you do not mean — You do not mean that you remember all, With the one hearing. Alison Nay, not all, not all. Marlowe With the one hearing! Will you tell me this? Alison With the one hearing? Ah, friend Christopher, You sang it to me once; but I could hear Over and over, many, many days, As if you sang. Marlowe (watching her) You were a dreamer, then. I took you for a little country child, That sleeps without a dream. Alison Oh, children dream. Marlowe And are you happy? — Bride? For as to me, You see that I am altered; you will say, With dreams and waking: dreams of powers and thrones And principalities, as the Book will have it, — And waking in the mire. You do not know The sense of waking down among the dead, Hard by some lazar-house. Alison (turning to the fire) Nay; but I know The sense of death. And then to rise again, And feel thyself bewildered, like a spirit Out of the grave-clothes and the fragrant strewings; Early and tranquil, — happy; — and yet thin, Thin for the dawn to shine through as a shell, And some way older grown. Marlowe (behind her) Thou sayest this? Alison Ah, I am older. Marlowe Where didst thou learn this? [She is silent, looking at the fire with endurance. Where didst thou learn? Of what extremity? Long, — unto death? — It was a sorrow then? Some grief that wore thee so — Alison It was a grief. Marlowe (ironically) A bitter grief? Alison Ay, it was bitter then. Marlowe Tell me of it. There is no grief for thee By right; it cannot be. There was no grief, Sure, but a dream. Tell me the dream. Alison No. Marlowe No? — Alison It is not now my own. Marlowe (eagerly) Thou wilt not tell me? Alison No. Marlowe Wilt thou do one little service then, — But for a whim? Stand here and let me see Thy face, if it has altered. When you came Downstair but now, I could not see you well, For light. [Reaching a candle. Is this the same you held? Another, [He takes another and she stands tremulously quiet while he faces her, watching her always. Another then — so, prithee. Thou hast heard Of Light that shined in darkness, hast thou not? And darkness comprehended not the Light? So. But I tell thee why. It was because The Dark, a sleeping brute, was blinded first, Bewildered at a thing it did not know. Nay, think, to have seen it never, never yet! Have pity on the Dark, I tell you, Bride. For after all is said, there is no thing So hails the Light as that same blackness there, O'er which it shines the whiter. Do you think It will not know at last? — it will not know? [She slowly turns towards the fire again, and listens, as he sets down the candle with a shaking hand. What of the darkness? Will you ever try To fathom that? Nay, nay, why should you so, You or another? Yet I tell you this: There is one side of the earth that even now Groans in the darkness, covered up with gloom And the low tide and dregs of sodden wreck, Waiting and waiting, lightless. Even now, While you can bless the Moon that blesses you, And here the wildest valley and the down, Oblivious of all shadow, — silver brimmed, Turn to her whiteness, like a dreaming face Unto the eyes that love; a wistful cheek, A heart of earth, for her all white, all white. Thou dost not know. Alison I hear. Marlowe (behind her) But yet not all. I will not tell thee all. Yet think of this. There are a thousand things men know of me To my dishonor. There are thousand more Their own dishonor blacknes me withal: Lies, slanders, fear! — My sins they have by rote, And never miss one; no! no miser of them Who, prying in the mire with hands of greed, After a missing groat, could let that go, — But not a jest of mine! — My blackest depth They know; and more than I they know of it, Who live and hunt me there, yes, only there, Avid of foulness, so they hound me out, Away — away — from any chance of grace, — Away from blessing that they prate about, But never saw and never dreamed upon, — And know not how to long for with desire! The Dark, yes, yes. But stranger times than all, The few, few times that I have looked at sin, Facing it, longing, — passed it, — (why, indeed?) They know not! Ay, the one time in the world, I put from me — I strove to put from me — My Heart's Desire, none knoweth, no, not one, And none will ever know. Alison (turning suddenly) But I will keep Thy word, with mine eyes dark. Marlowe Thou dost not know! Alison But I will keep it. Leave it here with me, Thy heaviness, — thy grief. Marlowe Believest thou? Alison Ay, as God liveth! Marlowe — Dost thou think on Him? — Well, I have seen thee; thou art here, at least. Alison (gently) Art thou an unbeliever? Marlowe I believe In thee. [She looks towards him wistfully. He hesitates. Then, as she sits in the corner of the settle by the fire, suddenly he crosses and flings himself passionately on his knees beside her, burying his face against her gown. ... Oh, take my heart into thy hand, Thou virgin-mother ... if it will not stain. Thou knowest that the figures carven out Above the Portal ... sometimes rest a bird. And hold secure — a nest, for pity's sake; A sorry nest, — a beggar thatch of straw And stolen bravery that yet will cling To that home shelter, proud it is so white. This fantasy — thou wilt not understand; But thou art patient. — So, I trust to thee All that I dream of that no man could guess: The dreams that come not true; the broken hope; Some manhood which I know not in myself, That will not be consoled. ... Whatever thou believest, — in thy hands. I shall look back and think it is not dead; But thou wilt keep it for me. [Bell in the distance. He rises. — Wilt thou not? Alison Oh, I will keep it. [They face each other radiantly. See, 't is Whitsun-eve. To-morrow, — Marlowe Then? Alison You know, the old wives say Whatever one shall ask and pray to have Of the Sun, that rises dancing in that dawn, Why, you shall have it surely. I will pray — Marlowe Some boon for me? Alison Indeed, for thee: thy peace Marlowe I must go far for that! Alison To thine own heart. For if thou have it not within thy heart, The world will never spend a thought for thee; And all things fail. Marlowe (with passion) How camest thou so wise? Alison Nay, I am old! Marlowe How camest thou so wise? — And I have naught to give thee. — It is gone. Strange, that I cannot think. Ah well, what need? — What need of songs for you? Your people come Home to you soon? Alison Yes, father and — Gabriel. Marlowe (watching her) 'T was he belike that passed me on the road, Singing, as I came hither. — Hear the bell. 'T is a long road. Mayhap, before I go ... Wilt thou ... wilt give me — nay, I am athirst — A cup of ... water? Alison Oh, but only that? Marlowe (after a pause) A cup of water. [She hastens to bring it from the dresser. He drinks, and hands her the cup. Alison Nay, no more? Marlowe No more. Indeed, I am most happy. Fare you well. If there were any blessing in my tongue — But — keep thee well. Alison All good go with thee! Marlowe (going) Yet, Come to the door with me and hold the light, So that I see my way. Alison (between laughter and tears) Why, there's the moon Over us all. What shall I say of thee? Marlowe Ay, but she doth not give so clear a light As thou. Alison I shall believe thou art afraid! Marlowe So am I, — of the Dark. Alison (in the doorway.) Lo, now! Marlowe Good-night. [He steps back, looking at her for a moment; turns; goes out. She stands in the doorway with her candle uplifted. ACT V SCENE: Deptford tavern, I June, 1593. Early evening. — Doors and casements wide. No lights within the tavern. — Outside, a red afterglow. — A solitary figure blots the light from the window, right; it is MARLOWE sitting in his accustomed place, his cup before him. Without, at a little distance, the BELLMAN'S voice is heard in a sing-song call. MARLOWE lifts his head and listens. Bellman PAST — seven — o'clock — and a sultry evening. Marlowe 'It strikes, it strikes! Now body turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! O mercy, heaven! look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile.' — Bellman (passing) Past — seven — o'clock — and a sultry evening. Enter from tap-room, Host with three or four Taverners. They light the place squalidly, order the tables, et cetera. — Marlowe continues his 'Faustus' monologue, murmuring to himself ironically. Marlowe 'Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease and midnight never come: Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again and make Perpetual day; or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul! O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi!' Bellman (in the distance) Past — seven — o'clock — a sultry — evening. Marlowe 'The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike — The devil will come and Faustus must be damned. [Looking out at the afterglow. See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament! One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ! — Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ; Yet will I call' — Enter from the street, Francis Archer, Rowse, Gill, and others, men and women. They cluster about the tables, left, noisily. The Host and a tapster bring in ale. [Marlowe mutters on to himself, and the words are lost in the street noises of rough singing and footsteps. Rowse (to Archer and Gill) Yare, yare! Archer — Here is a nook. [They come down to a table, left. Rowse A quiet haven for a cup o' comfort, After a scorching day. (To Host.) What cheer? Bestir! Gill Hurry thy heels. We're all as dry as mowers! — Archer Now for a song and sack. Rowse — Nay, first the sack, And then a rowse and three, to Mistress Moll. Gill (cuffing him) 'T is Gillian is my name, — I am no Moll. Here's for a gentle spirit. Wear my favor! [Laughter. [Marlowe looks at the revellers with fixed eyes. Marlowe 'This soul should fly from me, and I be changed Into some brutish beast. — All beasts are happy, For when they die, Their souls are soon dissolved in elements; But mine must still live to be plagued in hell.' Rowse (looking at Marlowe) There is that merry devil over yond! He sits there like Beelzebub the devil. Gill That's the wrong name. Beelzebub's a prince. Archer Will you be learned? — Nay, I know not which! Call him and see what name he'll answer to. Rowse (calling Marlowe) Ho, devil, devil, devil, — here, good devil! Gill Nay, he's too proud for us. Archer Marry, too gloomy! A game, a game! How stand you for a game? And Mistress, you shall cast your eye upon it, And so amend me. [Lays some coins upon the table. They play. Enter Bame. He comes down slowly, as if according to habit, then turns to look at the seat by the window, and sees Marlowe. As if doubting his senses, he points to him. Bame Look you ... he is there. Look, — it was all for nothing. He is there. Rowse (turning) Why, here am I, and here's some other he's! Will't do ye? Archer Here's a man that hath one wit. Bame (madly) He is come back, ye know it, — here again! But will you shield him? Nay, not long, not long. 'T is I will shew ... Come, turn him to the street! [Marlowe listens contemptuously. Bame appeals to the Host. Host To humor thee? Nay, mind thy tongue, I say, If thou wilt make complaint. Bame ... I say, you're all Set upon ruin if you harbor him. They are upon his track as ye shall see! — And you will let him stay, — make arrogant, Eat, drink, sit idle by the window there To drive you mad. — I say, to drive you mad! [Loud laughter. Ay, will you laugh? Not long. — Ye are all sold Unto the devil ... But if ye take it light To hobanob with the blasphemer there, Ask what he waits and wherefore? I am by, As any good and honest man, to shew That he is lay'd for. Ask him if he come From Canterbury. Rowse What ado in that? He did not burn the city, did he so? Or rob the shrine? [Laughter. Bame (eagerly) The shrine — the shrine, says he! — Ay, you have said it best, what he would do. You heard him. But he meant to steal away The Bride! [Marlowe rises. Look there, — see him; I knew, — I knew! I went to warn them; but they would not hear! I found the cursed letter that he wrote, — Made like a ballad, all to charm her eyes With vows and promises; all love; and she, So young — a gentlewoman — Marlowe (coming down towards Bame) Strangle thee! Thou cast-off devil of madness — Host Sirs, — good sirs — The Watch — Archer Ah, hold thy drone and let us hear! Bame (holding up a paper) He shall not fool ye, — I have witness; — read! He bids her come — [Reading. 'Come live with me, and be' — Marlowe (snatching the paper) 'And be my Love.' — The song — sole innocent! [He thrusts it in his breast. Here, come — come home. (To Bame.) — For thee, thou primal worm, Turn, turn again! I would not bruise thy head With my own heel. — Thou ineffectual adder! Bame Shall it be suffered for another day? I told you he is lay'd for ... You shall see The law upon him and upon yourselves To fellow with him. He, — a lying player, A conjurer, an atheist, that drinks And wagers with a swarm of outcast knaves, Thieves, ruffians, and the women worse than all! — The women, after — Marlowe (fiercely) Peace! Bame (pointing to the whole group) He comes back here, Here from his own town and from her, from her — From her — Gill Now mend thy manners! By the mass, And what is she? — Marlowe (crossing hastily to Gill and bowing) Madam, you hear! Bame (beside himself) Look there! Marlowe (with ceremony) Madam, the fellow speaks despitefully Here of your graces. Gill Ay, he did, he did! So thank you, you're an honest gentleman. Archer (to Marlowe) Hold off. Will you be merry? But not here. Have off with you! — This quarrel's mine. Do you Keep to your own! Marlowe (to Bame, indicating Gill) ... In defence of the gentlewoman Here. [The Taverners gather about. Archer (to Marlowe) 'T is my quarrel, — I shall do for him! What make you meddling here? Marlowe (savagely, trying to put aside Archer) Out of my way! — What, fool? Will you be dead? — Why, have your will! [Drawing. Bame Stay them. Marlowe (to him) — You, second! — This is but a moment! Archer Ah, do you reckon so? — [Drawing. Host Stay — stay! Marlowe — Not I! [They fight. Marlowe disarms Archer and flings away both swords. — Archer rushes upon him; they grapple. Marlowe draws his dagger; Archer catches it and stabs him as the crowd shuts in. — The crowd parts. Marlowe falters, hands over eyes, then falls. — Some taverners rush to the street; others blow out candles; some stand by Archer who breathes hard. — Bame in a daze. Rowse Hist — hist! Archer — He's ended. A By-stander Call the Watch! Others — The Watch! [Exeunt, calling. [Noise of horse's hoofs, then Enter Gabriel Andrew, breathless and travelstained. Gabriel — What's here? ... Already! ... (To Bame.) Thou — Bame — It was not I. [Gabriel hastens to Marlowe, and leans over him, kneeling to raise his head. Gabriel Dost thou not know me? — Canst thou hear? No — no? Marlowe O God ... God ... God! [He dies. [The tread of the watch is heard a little way off. Within there is silence. — Bame still regards the body of Marlowe vacantly. As the tread of the watch sounds nearer he moves towards Marlowe, fascinated; then draws back again. Bame (to the body) Will you be looking yet? — Ah, shut the eyes! Enter the watchmen led by the Watch, with a lanthorn. — The Taverners, murmuring, stand back. The Watch What's here? A By-stander A man is dying. Second By-stander — Nay, he's dead. The Watch Who is he? Host — Nay, I know not. 'T is no guest Of mine. Rowse His name is Marley. — Host — 'T is a player — [The watchmen come down to the body of Marlowe and lift up the lanthorn over his face. Gabriel is kneeling still, with his hand on Marlowe's heart. 'T was done with his own dagger. He would die, Ye see! — and that with cursing to the end. Gabriel Peace! Host — Did ye hear the oath? Gabriel I heard the cry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 1. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 2. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL ELEGY IN A THEATRICAL WAREHOUSE by KENNETH FEARING LOGIC AND 'THE MAGIC FLUTE' (IMPRESSIONS OF A PREMIERE) by MARIANNE MOORE DEPRESSION DAYS (2) by PAT MORA BOY AND MOM AT THE NUTCRACKER BALLET by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE THE SEITZ THEATER by MARTHA RONK AFTER MUSIC by JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY |
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