What have I done to be hung up like a miracle? The hemp's not sown nor the ladder-wood grown, that shall help fools to finish me! He did it himself! He said so with his last words!--there stands his friends and brother players--put them to their Testament if he said not he did it himself? CHIEF OFFICER. Who is it lies here?--methinks that I should know him, But for the fierce distortion of his face! MIDDLETON. He who erewhile wrote with a brand of fire, Now, in his passionate blood, floats tow'rds the grave! The present time is ever ignorant-- We lack clear vision in our self-love's maze; But Marlowe in the future will stand great, Whom this--the lowest caitiff in the world-- A nothing, save in grossness, hath destroy'd. JACCONOT. "Caitiff" back again in your throat! and "gross nothing" to boot--may you have it to live upon for a month, and die mad and starving! Would'st swear my life away so lightly? Tut! who was he? I could always find the soundings of a quart tankard, or empty a pasty in half his time, and swear as rare oaths between whiles--who was he? I too ha' write my odes and Pindar jigs with the twinkling of a bedpost, to the sound of the harp and hurdygurdy, while Capricornus wagged his fiery beard; I ha' sung songs to the faint moon's echoes at daybreak and danced here away and there away, like the lightning through a forest! As to your sword and dagger play, I've got the trick o' the eye and wrist--who was he? What's all his gods--his goddesses and lies?--the first a'nt worth a word; and for the two last, I was always a prince of both! "Caitiff!" and "beast!" and "nothing!"--who was he? CHIEF OFFICER. You're ours, for sundry villanies committed, Sufficient each to bring your vice to an end; The law hath got you safely in its grasp! JACCONOT (_after a pause_). Then may Vice and I sit crown'd in heaven, while Law and Honesty stalk damned through hell! Now do I see the thing very plain!--treachery--treachery, my masters! I know the jade that hath betrayed me--I know her. 'Slud! who cares? She was a fine woman, too--a rare person--and a good spirit; but there's an end of all now--she's turned foolish and virtuous, and a tell-tale, and I am to be turned to dust through it--long, long before my time: and these princely limbs must go make a dirt-pie--build up a mud hut--or fatten an alderman's garden! There! calf-heads--there's a lemon for your mouths! Heard'st ever such a last dying speech and confession! Write it in red ochre on a sheet of Irish, and send it to Mistress Cecily for a death-winder. I know what you've got against me--and I know you all deserve just the same yourselves--but lead on, my masters! _Exeunt_ JACCONOT _and_ OFFICERS. MIDDLETON. O Marlowe! canst thou rise with power no more? Can greatness die thus? HEYWOOD (_bending over the body.)_ Miserable sight! (_A shriek outside the house_).