Come, come-- Pygmalion and Prometheus dwell within you! You poetise her rarely, and exalt With goddess-attributes, and chastity Beyond most goddesses: be not thus serious! If for a passing paramour thou'dst love her, Why, so, so it may be well; but never place Thy full heart in her hand. MARLOWE. I have--I do-- And I will lay it bleeding at her feet. Reason no more, for I do love this woman: To me she's chaste, whatever thou hast heard. Whatever I may know, hear, find, or fancy, I must possess her constantly, or die. HEYWOOD. Nay, if't be thus, I'll fret thine ear no more With raven voice; but aid thee all I can. MARLOWE. Cecilia!--Go, dear friend--good Master Heywood, Leave me alone--I see her coming thither! HEYWOOD. Bliss wait thy wooing; peace of mind its end! (_aside_) His knees shake, and his face and hands are wet, As with a sudden fall of dew--God speed him! This is a desperate fancy! _Exit._ _Enter_ CECILIA. CECILIA. Thoughtful sir, How fare you? Thou'st been reading much of late, By the moon's light, I fear me? MARLOWE. Why so, lady? CECILIA. The reflex of the page is on thy face. MARLOWE. But in my heart the spirit of a shrine Burns, with immortal radiation crown'd. CECILIA. Nay, primrose gentleman, think'st me a saint? MARLOWE. I feel thy power. CECILIA. I exercise no arts-- Whence is my influence? MARLOWE. From heaven, I think. Madam, I love you--ere to-day you've seen it, Although my lips ne'er breathed the word before; And seldom as we've met and briefly spoken, There are such spiritual passings to and fro 'Twixt thee and me--though I alone may suffer-- As make me know this love blends with my life; Must branch with it, bud, blossom, put forth fruit, Nor end e'en when its last husks strew the grave, Whence we together shall ascend to bliss. CECILIA. Continued from this world? MARLOWE. Thy hand, both hands; I kiss them from my soul! CECILIA. Nay, sir, you burn me-- Let loose my hands! MARLOWE. I loose them--half my life has thus gone from me!-- That which is left can scarce contain my heart, Now grown too full with the high tide of joy, Whose ebb, retiring, fills the caves of sorrow, Where Syrens sing beneath their dripping hair, And raise the mirror'd fate. CECILIA. Then, gaze not in it, Lest thou should'st see thy passing funeral. I would not--I might chance to see far worse. MARLOWE. Thou art too beautiful ever to die! I look upon thee, and can ne'er believe it. CECILIA.