Your merry health, Master Kit Marlowe! I'll bring a loud pair of palms to cheer your soul the next time you strut in red paint with a wooden weapon at your thigh. MARLOWE. Who sent for _you_, dorr-hawk?--go! JACCONOT. Go! Aha!--I remember the word--same tone, same gesture--or as like as the two profiles of a monkey, or as two squeaks for one pinch. Go!--not I--here's to all your healths! One pull more! There, I've done--take it, Master Marlowe; and pledge me as the true knight of London's rarest beauties! MARLOWE. I will! (_Dashes the tankard at his head_.) JACCONOT (_stooping quickly_). A miss, 'fore-gad!--the wall has got it! See where it trickles down like the long robe of some dainty fair one! And look you here--and there again, look you!--what make you of the picture he hath presented? MARLOWE (_staggers as he stares at the wall_). O subtle Nature! who hath so compounded Our senses, playing into each other's wheels, That feeling oft acts substitute for sight, As sight becomes obedient to the thought-- How canst thou place such wonders at the mercy Of every wretch that crawls? I feel--I see! (_Street Music as before, but farther off._) JACCONOT (_singing_). Ram out the link, boys; ho, boys! The blear-eyed morning's here; Let us wander through the streets, And kiss whoe'er one meets; St. Cecil is my dear! Ram out the link, boys, &c. MARLOWE (_drawing_). Lightning come up from hell and strangle thee! MIDDLETON _and_ HEYWOOD. Nay, Marlowe! Marlowe! (_they hold him back_). MIDDLETON (_to_ JACCONOT). Away, thou bestial villain! JACCONOT (_singing at_ MARLOWE). St. Cecil is my dear! MARLOWE (_furiously_). Blast! blast and scatter Thy body to ashes! Off! I'll have his ghost! (_rushes at_ JACCONOT--_they fight--Marlowe disarms him; but_ JACCONOT _wrests_ MARLOWE'S _own sword from his hand, and stabs him_--MARLOWE _falls_) MIDDLETON. See! see! MARLOWE (_clasping his forehead_). Who's down?--answer me, friends--is't I?-- Or in the maze of some delirious trance, Some realm unknown, or passion newly born-- Ne'er felt before--am I transported thus? My fingers paddle, too, in blood--is't mine? JACCONOT. O, content you, Master Marplot--it's you that's down, drunk or sober; and that's your own blood on your fingers, running from a three-inch groove in your ribs for the devil's imps to slide into you. Ugh! cry gramercy! for it's all over with your rhyming! HEYWOOD. O, heartless mischief! MIDDLETON. Hence, thou rabid cur! MARLOWE. What demon in the air with unseen arm Hath turn'd my unchain'd fury against myself? Recoiling dragon! thy resistless force Scatters thy mortal master in his pride, To teach him, with self-knowledge, to fear thee. Forgetful of all corporal conditions, My passion hath destroy'd me! JACCONOT.