On this page

• Text (1)

  Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.

  • 

    Untitled Article

• Transcript

  • Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.

    Additionally, when viewing full transcripts, extracted text may not be in the same order as the original document.

    Untitled Article

    led an ill life , Master Marlowe ; and so the sweet saint ttiou spok ' st of , will remain my fair game—behind the scenes . Mar . Liar ! slave ! sla—Kind Master Heywood , You will not see me die thus!—thus by the hand And maddening tongue of such a beast as that !

    Haste if you love me—fetch a leech to help me—Here—Middleton—sweet friend—a bandage here—I cannot die by such a hand—I will not—I say I will not die by that vile hand ! Go bring Cecilia to me—bring the leech—Close—close this wound—you know I did it myself—Bring sweet Cecilia—haste—haste—instantly-

    —Bring life and time—bring Heaven—Oh , I am dying—Some water—stay beside me—maddening death , By such a hand ! Oh , villain ! from the grave I constantly will rise to curse ! curse ! curse thee ! [ Rises—and Jails dead . Mid . Terrible end !

    Hey . Oh , God !—he is quite gone ! Jac . 'Twas dreadful — ' twas . I stand up for mine own nature none the less . What noise was that ?

    Enter Officers . Chief Offi . This is our man—ha ! murder has been here ! You are our prisoner—the gallows waits you . Jac . What have I done to be hung up like a pear ? 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 stand his friends and brother-players—put them to their Testament if he said not he did it himself . Ch . Offi . Who is it lies here ?—methinks that I should know him , But for the fierce distortion of his face !

    Mir > . 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 erossness , hath destroyed . Jac . " 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 f 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 rarel oaths between whiles—who was he ; I too ha '

    Untitled Article

    138 The Death of Marlowe .

• Citation
  • Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), Aug. 1, 1837, page 138, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct1834/page/66/