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Jac . Oh , 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 . Ugh ! cry grammercy ! for its all over with your rhyming ! Hey . Oh , heartless mischief ! Mid . Hence , thou rabid cur !
Mar . 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 !
Jac . No such matter ; it was my doing . You shouldn ' t ha * ran at me in that fashion with a r % al sword—I thought it had been one o' your sham ones . Mid . Away ! Hey . See ! his face changes—lift him up . { They raise and support him . Here—place your hand upon his side , Close over mine , and stanch the flowing wound .
Mar . Bright is the day—the air with glory teems—And eagles wanton in the smile of Jove : Can these things be , and Marlowe live no more ! Oh , Hey wood ! Hey wood ! I had a world of hopes About that woman—now in my heart they rise , Confused , as one would burn a colourVI map . I see her form—I feel thy breath , my love ; And know thee for a sweet saint come to save me !
Save !—is it death I feel—it cannot be deatli ? Jac . ( half aside ) . Marry , but it can ! — or else your sword ' s a foolish dog that dar ' n ' t bite his owner . Mar . Oh , friends—dear friends—this is a sorry end—A most unworthy end ! To think—oh , God ! To think that I should fall by the hand of one Whose office , like his nature , is all baseness , Gives death ten thousand stings , and to the grave A damning victory ! Fame sinks with life !
A galling—shameful— -ignominious end ! [ Sinks down . Oh , mighty heart ! Oh , full and orbed heart , Flee to thy kindred sun , rolling on high ! Or let the hoary and eternal sea , Father of many worthy thoughts and hopes , Sweep me away , and swallow body and soul ! Jac . There'll be no encore to either , I wot ; for thou ' st
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The Death of Marlowe . 137
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No . 221 II . L
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Citation
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Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), Aug. 1, 1837, page 137, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct1834/page/65/
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