Luxuriously she lashed him with the truth. Against his mouth her subtle mouth she set To show, as through a mask, O, without ruth, As through a cold clay mask (brackish and wet With what strange tears!) it was not his, not his, The kiss that through his quivering lips she met. Kissing him, "_Thus_," she whispered, "_did he kiss. Ah, is the sweetness like a sword, then, sweet? Last night--ah, kiss again--aching with bliss,_ _Thus was I made his own, from head to feet._" --A sudden agony thro' his body swept Tempestuously.--"_Our wedded pulses beat_ _Like this and this; and then, at dawn, he slept._" She laughed, pouting her lips against his cheek To drink; and, as in answer, Marlowe wept. As a dead man in dreams, he heard her speak. Clasped in the bitter grave of that sweet clay, Wedded and one with it, he moaned. Too weak Even to lift his head, sobbing, he lay, Then, slowly, as their breathings rose and fell, He felt the storm of passion, far away, Gather. The shuddering waves began to swell. And, through the menace of the thunder-roll, The thin quick lightnings, thrilling through his hell, Lightnings that hell itself could not control (Even while she strove to bow his neck anew) Woke the great slumbering legions of his soul. Sharp was that severance of the false and true, Sharp as a sword drawn from a shuddering wound. But they, that were one flesh, were cloven in two. Flesh leapt from clasping flesh, without a sound. He plucked his body from her white embrace, And cast him down, and grovelled on the ground. Yet, ere he went, he strove once more to trace, Deep in her eyes, the loveliness he knew; Then--spat his hatred into her smiling face. She clung to him. He flung her off. He drew His dagger, thumbed the blade, and laughed--"Poor punk! What? Would you make me your own murderer, too?" * * * *