O, sir--but passion, circumstance, and fate, Can do far worse than kill: they can dig graves, And make the future owners dance above them, Well knowing how 'twill end. Why look you sad? 'Tis not your case; you are a man in love-- At least, you say so--and should therefore feel A constant sunshine, wheresoe'er you tread, Nor think of what's beneath. But speak no more: I see a volume gathering in your eye Which you would fain have printed in my heart; But you were better cast it in the fire. Enough you've said, and I enough have listened. MARLOWE. I have said naught. CECILIA. You have spoken very plain-- So, Master Marlowe, please you, break we off; And, since your mind is now relieved--good day! MARLOWE. Leave me not thus!--forgive me! CECILIA. For what offence MARLOWE. The expression of my love. CECILIA. Tut! that's a trifle. Think'st thou I ne'er saw men in love before? Unto the summer of beauty they are common As grasshoppers. MARLOWE. And to its winter, lady? CECILIA. There is no winter in my thoughts--adieu! _Exit._ MARLOWE. She's gone!--How leafless is my life!--My strength Seems melted--my breast vacant--and in my brain I hear the sound of a retiring sea. _Exit._ SCENE II. _Gravel Lane; Bankside._ _Enter_ HEYWOOD _and_ MIDDLETON. MIDDLETON. And yet it may end well, after his fit is over. HEYWOOD. But he is earnest in it. MIDDLETON. 'Tis his habit; a little thunder clears the atmosphere. At present he is spell-bound, and smouldereth in a hot cloud of passion; but when he once makes his way, he will soon disperse his free spirit abroad over the inspired heavens. HEYWOOD. I fear me she will sow quick seed of feverish fancies in his mind that may go near to drive him mad. MIDDLETON. How so? He knoweth her for what she is, as well as for what she was;--the high-spirited and once virtuous wife of the drunkard Bengough. You remember him? HEYWOOD. I have seen him i' the mire. 'Twas his accustomed bed o' nights--and morning, too--many a time. He preferred _that_ to the angel he left at home. Some men do. 'Tis a sorrow to think upon. MIDDLETON. And one that tears cannot wash! Master Marlowe hath too deep a reading i' the books of nature to nail his heart upon a gilded weathercock. He is only desperate after the fashion of a pearl diver. When he hath enough he will desist--breathe freely, polish the shells, and build grottoes. HEYWOOD.