She whirl'd a javelin at me, and methought I woke; when, slowly at the foot o' the bed The mist-like curtains parted, and upon me Did learned Faustus look! He shook his head With grave reproof, but more of sympathy, As though his past humanity came o'er him-- Then went away with a low, gushing sigh, That startled his own death-cold breast, and seem'd As from a marble urn where passion's ashes Their sleepless vigil keep. Well--perhaps they do. (_after a pause_) Lived he not greatly? Think what was his power! All knowledge at his beck--the very Devil His common slave. And, O, brought he not back, Through the thick-million'd catacombs of ages, Helen's unsullied loveliness to his arms? MIDDLETON. So--let us have more wine, then! HEYWOOD. Spirit enough Springs from thee, Master Marlowe--what need more. MARLOWE. Drawer! lift up thy leaden poppy-head! Up man!--where art? The night seems wondrous hot! (MARLOWE _throws open a side window that reaches down to the floor, and stands there, looking out._) HEYWOOD (_to_ MIDDLETON). The air flows in upon his heated face, And he grows pale with looking at the stars; Thinking the while of many things in heaven. MIDDLETON. And some one on the earth--as fair to him-- For, lo you!--is't not she? (_Pointing towards the open window_.) HEYWOOD. The lady, folded In the long mantle, coming down the street? MIDDLETON. Let be; we cannot help him. (HEYWOOD _and_ MIDDLETON _retire apart_--CECILIA _is passing by the open window_.) MARLOWE. Stay awhile!-- One moment stay! CECILIA (_pausing_). That is not much to ask. (_She steps in through the window_.) MARLOWE. Nor much for you to grant; but O, to me That moment is a circle without bounds,-- Because I see no end to my delight! CECILIA. O, sir, you make me very sad at heart; Let's speak no more of this. I am on my way To walk beside the river. MARLOWE. May I come? CECILIA. Ah, no; I'll go alone. MARLOWE. 'Tis dark and dismal; Nor do I deem it safe! CECILIA. What can harm _me_? If not above, at least I am beyond All common dangers. No, you shall not come. I have some questions I would ask myself; And in the sullen, melancholy flow O' the unromantic Thames, that has been witness Of many tragical realities, Bare of adornment as its cold stone stairs, I may find sympathy, if not response. MARLOWE.