Part 56

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.

I do rejoice to find myself among The choicest spirits of the age: health, sirs! I would commend your fame to future years, But that I know ere this ye must be old In the conviction, and that ye full oft With sure posterity have shaken hands Over the unstable bridge of present time.

MARLOWE.

Not so: we write from the full heart within, And leave posterity to find her own. Health, sir!--your good deeds laurel you in heaven.

MIDDLETON.

'Twere best men left their fame to chance and fashion, As birds bequeath their eggs to the sun's hatching, Since Genius can make no will.

MARLOWE.

Troth, can it! But for the consequences of the deed, What fires of blind fatality may catch them! Say, you do love a woman--do adore her-- You may embalm the memory of her worth And chronicle her beauty to all time, In words whereat great Jove himself might flush, And feel Olympus tremble at his thoughts; Yet where is your security? Some clerk Wanting a foolscap, or some boy a kite, Some housewife fuel, or some sportsman wadding To wrap a ball (which hits the poet's brain By merest accident) seizes your record, And to the wind thus scatters all your will, Or, rather, your will's object. Thus, our pride Swings like a planet by a single hair, Obedient to God's breath. More wine! more wine! I preach--and I grow melancholy--wine!

Enter DRAWER with a tankard.

A GENTLEMAN (rising).

We're wending homeward--gentlemen, good night!

MARLOWE.