What mean'st by discarding me, and why is it? 'Slud! is this the right sort of return for all my skilful activities, my adroit fascinations of young lords in drink, my tricks at dice, cards, and dagger-play, not to speak too loudly of bets on bear-baits, soap-bubbles, and Shrovetide cocks; or my lies about your beauty and temper? Have I not brought dukes and earls and reverend seniors, on tip-toe, and softly whispering for fear of "the world," right under the balcony of your window?--O, don't beat the dust with your fine foot! These be good services, I think! CECILIA (_half aside_). Alas! alas!--the world sees us only as bright, though baleful stars, little knowing our painful punishments in the dark--our anguish in secret. JACCONOT. Are you thinking of me? CECILIA. Go! JACCONOT. Go!--a death's-head crown your pillow! May you dream of love, and wake and see that! CECILIA. I had rather see't than you. JACCONOT. What's i' the wind,--nobleman, or gentleman, or a brain fancy--am not I at hand? Are you mad? CECILIA (_overcome_). I'd gladly believe I have been so. JACCONOT. Good. I'm content you see me aright once more, and acknowledge yourself wrong. CECILIA (_half aside, and tearfully_). O, wrong indeed--very wrong--to my better nature--my better nature. JACCONOT. And to me, too! Bethink thee, I say, when last year, after the dance at Hampton, thou wert enraged against the noble that slighted thee; and, flushed with wine, thou took'st me by the ear, and mad'st me hand thee into thy coach, and get in beside thee, with a drawn sword in my hand and a dripping trencher on my head, singing such songs, until---- CECILIA. Earthworms and stone walls! JACCONOT. Hey! what of them? CECILIA. I would that as the corporal Past they cover, They would, at earnest bidding of the will, Entomb in walls of darkness and devour The hated retrospections of the mind. JACCONOT (_aside_). Oho!--the lamps and saw-dust!--Here's foul play And mischief in the market. Preaching varlet! I'll find him out--I'll dog him! _Exit_. CECILIA. Self disgust Gnaws at the root of being, and doth hang A heavy sickness on the beams of day, Making the atmosphere, which should exalt Our contemplations, press us down to earth, As though our breath had made it thick with plague. Cursed! accursed be the freaks of Nature, That mar us from ourselves, and make our acts The scorn and loathing of our afterthoughts-- The finger mark of Conscience, who, most treacherous, Wakes to accuse, but slumber'd o'er the sin. _Exit._ SCENE III. _A Room in the Triple Tun, Blackfriars._ MARLOWE, MIDDLETON, _and_ GENTLEMEN. GENTLEMAN.