"Ah, you wondered why," Said Nash, "you wondered why he asked your help To crown that work of his. Why, Chapman, think, Think of the cobbler's awl--there's a stout lance To couch at London, there's a conquering point To carry in triumph through Persepolis! I tell you Kit was nothing but a child, When some rich patron of the _Golden Shoe_ Beheld him riding into Samarcand Upon a broken chair, the which he said Was a white steed, splashed with the blood of kings. When, on that patron's bounty, he did ride So far as Cambridge, he was a brave lad, Untamed, adventurous, but still innocent, O, innocent as the cobbler's little self! He brought to London just a bundle and stick, A slender purse, an Ovid, a few scraps Of song, and all unshielded, all unarmed A child's heart, packed with splendid hopes and dreams. I say a child's heart, Chapman, and that phrase Crowns, not dis-crowns, his manhood. Well--he turned An honest penny, taking some small part In plays at the _Red Bull_. And, all the while, Beyond the paint and tinsel of the stage, Beyond the greasy cock-pit with its reek Of orange-peel and civet, as all of these Were but the clay churned by the glorious rush Of his white chariots and his burning steeds, Nay, as the clay were a shadow, his great dreams, Like bannered legions on some proud crusade, Empurpling all the deserts of the world, Swept on in triumph to the glittering towers Of his abiding City. Then--he met That damned blood-sucking cockatrice, the pug Of some fine strutting mummer, one of those plagues Bred by our stage, a puff-ball on the hill Of Helicon. As for his wench--she too Had played so many parts that she forgot The cue for truth. King Puff had taught her well. He was the vainer and more foolish thing, She the more poisonous. One dark day, to spite Archer, her latest paramour, a friend And apple-squire to Puff, she set her eyes On Marlowe ... feigned a joy in his young art, Murmured his songs, used all her London tricks To coney-catch the country greenhorn. Man, Kit never even _saw_ her painted face! He pored on books by candle-light and saw Everything thro' a mist. O, I could laugh To think of it, only--his up-turned skull There, in the dark, now that the flesh drops off, Has laughed enough, a horrible silent laugh, To think his Angel of Light was, after all, Only the red-lipped Angel of the Plague. He was no better than the rest of us, No worse. He felt the heat. He felt the cold. He took her down to Deptford to escape Contagion, and the crashing of sextons' spades On dead men's bones in every churchyard round; The jangling bell and the cry, _Bring out your dead_.