probably viewed in that day as an eminently sound and Christian act of political economy. Leaving Abigail and Ithamore to the liking or loathing of readers of the play, we hasten to conclude this discussion with examples of Marlowe's verse. His poetry is once more the refining element, beautifying the ugly, ennobling the mean, a vein of gold in the quartz. Having grown more generous since the days of _Doctor Faustus_, the poet scatters gems with lavish hand throughout the play. Rhymes begin to appear, as though he scorned to seem dependent upon blank verse alone. Extensive as is the choice, it is impossible, in fairness to those readers who have not the play, to omit entirely the often-quoted opening scene of the second act. After it, however, we quote a passage which, almost more than the other, illustrates the purifying influence of the author's imagination: the fact that it is partly in rhyme gives it an additional interest. (1) [BARABAS _wanders in the streets about his old home where his treasure lies concealed._] _Barabas._ Thus, like the sad-presaging raven, that tolls The sick man's passport in her hollow beak, And in the shadow of the silent night Doth shake contagion from her sable wings, Vexed and tormented runs poor Barabas With fatal curses towards these Christians. The incertain pleasures of swift-footed time Have ta'en their flight, and left me in despair; And of my former riches rests no more But bare remembrance; like a soldier's scar, That has no further comfort for his maim.... Now I remember those old women's words, Who in my wealth would tell me winter's tales, And speak of spirits and ghosts that glide by night About the place where treasure hath been hid: And now methinks that I am one of those; For, whilst I live, here lives my soul's sole hope, And, when I die, here shall my spirit walk. (2) [BELLAMIRA, _a courtesan, and_ ITHAMORE, _a cut-throat slave from Thrace, are together._] _Bell._ Now, gentle Ithamore, lie in my lap.-- Where are my maids? provide a cunning banquet; Send to the merchant, bid him bring me silks; Shall Ithamore, my love, go in such rags? _Ithamore._ And bid the jeweller come hither too. _Bell._ I have no husband; sweet, I'll marry thee. _Ithamore._ Content: but we will leave this paltry land, And sail from hence to Greece, to lovely Greece;-- I'll be thy Jason, thou my golden fleece;-- Where painted carpets o'er the meads are hurled, And Bacchus' vineyards overspread the world; Where woods and forests go in goodly green;-- I'll be Adonis, thou shalt be Love's Queen;-- The meads, the orchards, and the primrose-lanes, Instead of sedge and reed, bear sugar-canes: Thou in those groves, by Dis above, Shalt live with me and be my love. _Bell._ Whither will I not go with gentle Ithamore?