Part 50

Beware the waking hour!

MARLOWE.

In lovely radiance, Like all that's fabled of Olympus' queen, She moves--as if the earth were undulant clouds, And all its flowers her subject stars.

HEYWOOD.

Proceed.

MARLOWE.

Smile not; for 'tis most true: the very air With her sweet presence is impregnate richly. As in a mead, that's fresh with youngest green, Some fragrant shrub, some secret herb, exhales Ambrosial odours; or in lonely bower, Where one may find the musk plant, heliotrope, Geranium, or grape hyacinth, confers A ruling influence, charming present sense And sure of memory; so, her person bears A natural balm, obedient to the rays Of heaven--or to her own, which glow within, Distilling incense by their own sweet power. The dew at sunrise on a ripened peach Was never more delicious than her neck. Such forms are Nature's favourites.

HEYWOOD.

Come, come-- Pygmalion and Prometheus dwell within you! You poetise her rarely, and exalt With goddess-attributes, and chastity Beyond most goddesses: be not thus serious! If for a passing paramour thou'dst love her, Why, so, so it may be well; but never place Thy full heart in her hand.

MARLOWE.

I have--I do-- And I will lay it bleeding at her feet. Reason no more, for I do love this woman: To me she's chaste, whatever thou hast heard. Whatever I may know, hear, find, or fancy, I must possess her constantly, or die.

HEYWOOD.

Nay, if't be thus, I'll fret thine ear no more With raven voice; but aid thee all I can.

MARLOWE.

Cecilia!--Go, dear friend--good Master Heywood, Leave me alone--I see her coming thither!

HEYWOOD.

Bliss wait thy wooing; peace of mind its end! (aside) His knees shake, and his face and hands are wet, As with a sudden fall of dew--God speed him! This is a desperate fancy! Exit.

Enter CECILIA.

CECILIA.

Thoughtful sir, How fare you? Thou'st been reading much of late, By the moon's light, I fear me?

MARLOWE.

Why so, lady?

CECILIA.

The reflex of the page is on thy face.

MARLOWE.

But in my heart the spirit of a shrine Burns, with immortal radiation crown'd.

CECILIA.

Nay, primrose gentleman, think'st me a saint?