Kitabı oku: «The Works of Christopher Marlowe, Vol. 3 (of 3)», sayfa 12

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. ⁶⁵³

 
Come⁶⁵⁴ live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and vallies, dales and fields,⁶⁵⁵
Woods or steepy mountain yields.⁶⁵⁶
 
 
And we will⁶⁵⁷ sit upon the rocks,
Seeing⁶⁵⁸ the shepherds feed their⁶⁵⁹ flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing⁶⁶⁰ madrigals.
 
 
And I will make thee beds of roses⁶⁶¹
And⁶⁶² a thousand fragrant posies,
A cup of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
 
 
A gown⁶⁶³ made of the finest wooll
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-linèd⁶⁶⁴ slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
 
 
A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
An if these pleasures may thee move,
Come⁶⁶⁵ live with me, and be my love.
 
 
The shepherd-swains⁶⁶⁶ shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
 

[In England's Helicon Marlowe's song is followed by the "Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" and "Another of the same Nature made since." Both are signed Ignoto, but the first of these pieces has been usually ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh⁶⁶⁷—on no very substantial grounds.]

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD

 
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
 
 
Times drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.
 
 
The flowers do fade and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
 
 
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
 
 
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these to me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.
 
 
But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
 

ANOTHER OF THE SAME NATURE MADE SINCE

 
Come live with me, and be my dear,
And we will revel all the year,
In plains and groves, on hills and dales,
Where fragrant air breathes sweetest gales.
 
 
There shall you have the beauteous pine,
The cedar, and the spreading vine;
And all the woods to be a screen,
Lest Phœbus kiss my Summer's Queen.
 
 
The seat for your disport shall be
Over some river in a tree,
Where silver sands and pebbles sing
Eternal ditties to the spring.
 
 
There shall you see the nymphs at play,
And how the satyrs spend the day;
The fishes gliding on the sands,
Offering their bellies to your hands.
 
 
The birds with heavenly tunèd throats
Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes,
Which to your senses will impart
A music to enflame the heart.
 
 
Upon the bare and leafless oak
The ring-doves' wooings will provoke
A colder blood than you possess
To play with me and do no less.
 
 
In bowers of laurel trimly dight
We will out-wear the silent night,
While Flora busy is to spread
Her richest treasure on our bed.
 
 
Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
And all these sparkling lights shall spend
All to adorn and beautify
Your lodging with most majesty.
 
 
Then in mine arms will I enclose
Lilies' fair mixture with the rose,
Whose nice perfection in love's play
Shall tune me to the highest key.
 
 
Thus as we pass the welcome night
In sportful pleasures and delight,
The nimble fairies on the grounds,
Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.
 
 
If these may serve for to entice
Your presence to Love's Paradise,
Then come with me, and be my dear,
And we will then begin the year.
 

The following verses in imitation of Marlowe are by Donne:—

THE BAIT

 
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasure prove
Of golden sands and christal brooks
With silken lines and silver hooks.
 
 
There will the river whispering run,
Warm'd by thine eyes more than the sun;
And there th' enamoured fish will stay
Begging themselves they may betray.
 
 
When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish which every channel hath
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee than thou him.
 
 
If thou to be so seen beest loath
By sun or moon, thou darkenest both;
And if my self have leave to see,
I heed not their light, having thee.
 
 
Let others freeze with angling reeds
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset
With strangling snare or winding net.
 
 
Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks outwrest,
Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes.
 
 
For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait:
That fish that is not catched thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.
 

Herrick has a pastoral invitation

TO PHILLIS TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM

 
Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee;
What sweets the country can afford
Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board.
 
 
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed
With crawling woodbine overspread:
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
 
 
Thy clothing next shall be a gown
Made of the fleeces' purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
Their milk thy drink; and thou shall eat
 
 
The paste of filberts for thy bread,
With cream of cowslips buttered.
Thy feasting-tables shall be hills
With daisies spread and daffodils;
 
 
Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by
For meat shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets
Of primroses and violets.
 
 
A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
That richly wrought and this as brave,
So that as either shall express
The wearer's no mean shepherdess.
 
 
At shearing-times and yearly wakes,
When Themilis his pastime makes,
There thou shalt be; and be the wit,
Nay more, the feast and grace of it.
 
 
On holidays when virgins meet
To dance the hays with nimble feet,
Thou shalt come forth and then appear
The queen of roses for that year;
 
 
And having danced ('bove all the best)
Carry the garland from the rest.
In wicker-baskets maids shall bring
To thee, my dearest shepherdling,
 
 
The blushing apple, bashful pear,
And shame-faced plum all simp'ring there:
Walk in the groves and thou shalt find
The name of Phillis in the rind
 
 
Of every straight and smooth-skin tree,
Where kissing that I'll twice kiss thee.
To thee a sheep-hook I will send
Be-prankt with ribands to this end,
 
 
This, this alluring hook might be
Less for to catch a sheep than me.
Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine,
Not made of ale but spiced wine;
 
 
To make thy maids and self free mirth,
All sitting near the glittering hearth.
Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes and strings,
 
 
Of winning colours that shall move
Others to lust but me to love.
These, nay, and more, thine own shall be
If thou wilt love and live with me.
 

FRAGMENT. ⁶⁶⁸

 
I walk'd along a stream, for pureness rare,
Brighter than sun-shine; for it did acquaint
The dullest sight with all the glorious prey
That in the pebble-pavèd channel lay.
 
 
No molten crystal, but a richer mine,
Even Nature's rarest alchymy ran there,—
Diamonds resolv'd, and substance more divine,
Through whose bright-gliding current might appear
A thousand naked nymphs, whose ivory shine,
Enamelling the banks, made them more dear
Than ever was that glorious palace' gate
Where the day-shining Sun in triumph sate.
 
 
Upon this brim the eglantine and rose,
The tamarisk, olive, and the almond tree,
As kind companions, in one union grows,
Folding their twining⁶⁶⁹ arms, as oft we see
Turtle-taught lovers either other close,
Lending to dulness feeling sympathy;
And as a costly valance o'er a bed,
So did their garland-tops the brook o'erspread.
 
 
Their leaves, that differ'd both in shape and show,
Though all were green, yet difference such in green,
Like to the checker'd bent of Iris' bow,
Prided the running main, as it had been—
 

DIALOGUE IN VERSE. ⁶⁷⁰

JACK

 
Seest thou not yon farmer's son?
He hath stoln my love from me, alas!
What shall I do? I am undone;
My heart will ne'er be as it was.
O, but he gives her gay gold rings,
And tufted gloves [for] holiday,
And many other goodly things,
That hath stolen my love away.
 

FRIEND

 
Let him give her gay gold rings
Or tufted gloves, were they ne'er so [gay];
[F]or were her lovers lords or kings,
They should not carry the wench away.
 

[JACK.]

 
But 'a dances wonders well,
And with his dances stole her love from me:
Yet she wont to say I bore the bell
For dancing and for courtesy.
 

DICK. ⁶⁷¹

 
Fie, lusty younker, what do you here,
Not dancing on the green to-day?
For Pierce, the farmer's son, I fear,
Is like to carry your wench away.
 

[JACK.]

 
Good Dick, bid them all come hither,
And tell Pierce from me beside,
That, if he thinks to have the wench,
Here he stands shall lie with the bride.
 

DICK. ⁶⁷²

 
Fie, Nan, why use thy old lover so,
For any other new-come guest?
Thou long time his love did know;
Why shouldst thou not use him best?
 

[NAN.]

 
Bonny Dick, I will not forsake
My bonny Rowland for any gold:
If he can dance as well as Pierce,
He shall have my heart in hold.
 

PIERCE

 
Why, then, my hearts, let's to this gear;
And by dancing I may won
My Nan, whose love I hold so dear
As any realm under the sun.
 

GENTLEMAN. ⁶⁷³

 
Then, gentles, ere I speed from hence
I will be so bold to dance
A turn or two without offence;
For, as I was walking along by chance,
I was told you did agree.
 

[FRIEND.]

 
'Tis true, good sir; and this is she
Hopes your worship comes not to crave her;
For she hath lovers two or three,
And he that dances best must have her.
 

GENTLEMAN

 
How say you, sweet, will you dance with me?
And you [shall] have both land and [hill];
My love shall want nor gold nor fee.
 

[NAN.]

 
I thank you, sir, for your good will;
But one of these my love must be:
I'm but a homely country maid,
And far unfit for your degree;
[To dance with you I am afraid.]
 

FRIEND

 
Take her, good sir, by the hand,
As she is fairest; were she fairer,
By this dance, you shall understand,
He that can win her is like to wear her.
 

FOOL

 
And saw you not [my] Nan to-day,
My mother's maid have you not seen?
My pretty Nan is gone away
To seek her love upon the green.
[I cannot see her 'mong so many:]
She shall have me, if she have any.
 

NAN. ⁶⁷⁴

 
Welcome, sweet-heart, and welcome here,
Welcome, my [true] love, now to me.
This is my love [and my darling dear],
And that my husband [soon] must be.
And, boy, when thou com'st home thou'lt see
Thou art as welcome home as he.
 

GENTLEMAN

 
Why, how now, sweet Nan! I hope you jest.
 

NAN. ⁶⁷⁵

 
No, by my troth, I love the fool the best:
And, if you be jealous, God give you good-night!
I fear you're a gelding, you caper so light.
 

GENTLEMAN

 
I thought she had jested and meant but a fable,
But now do I see she hath play'[d] with his bable.⁶⁷⁶
I wish all my friends by me to take heed,
That a fool come not near you when you mean to speed.
 

APPENDICES

APPENDICES.
No. I.
THE ATHEIST'S TRAGEDIE. ⁶⁷⁷

 
All you that have got eares to heare,
Now listen unto mee;
Whilst I do tell a tale of feare;
A true one it shall bee:
 
 
A truer storie nere was told,
As some alive can showe;
'Tis of a man in crime grown olde,
Though age he did not know.
 
 
This man did his owne God denie
And Christ his onelie son,
And did all punishment defie,
So he his course might run.
 
 
Both day and night would he blaspheme,
And day and night would sweare,
As if his life was but a dreame,
Not ending in dispaire.
 
 
A poet was he of repute,
And wrote full many a playe,
Now strutting in a silken sute,
Then begging by the way.
 
 
He had alsoe a player beene
Upon the Curtaine-stage,
But brake his leg in one lewd scene,
When in his early age.
 
 
He was a fellow to all those
That did God's laws reject,
Consorting with the Christians' foes
And men of ill aspect.
 
 
Ruffians and cutpurses hee
Had ever at his backe,
And led a life most foule and free,
To his eternall wracke.
 
 
He now is gone to his account,
And gone before his time,
Did not his wicked deedes surmount
All precedent of crime.
 
 
But he no warning ever tooke
From others' wofull fate,
And never gave his life a looke
Untill it was too late.
 
 
He had a friend, once gay and greene.⁶⁷⁸
Who died not long before,
The wofull'st wretch was ever seen,
The worst ere woman bore,
 
 
Unlesse this Wormall⁶⁷⁹ did exceede
Even him in wickednesse,
Who died in the extreemest neede
And terror's bitternesse.
 
 
Yet Wormall ever kept his course,
Since nought could him dismay;
He knew not what thing was remorse
Unto his dying day.
 
 
Then had he no time to repent
The crimes he did commit,
And no man ever did lament
For him, to dye unfitt.
 
 
Ah, how is knowledge wasted quite
On such want wisedome true,
And that which should be guiding light
But leades to errors newe!
 
 
Well might learnd Cambridge oft regret
He ever there was bred:
The tree she in his mind had set
Brought poison forth instead.
 
 
His lust was lawlesse as his life,
And brought about his death;
For, in a deadlie mortall strife,
Striving to stop the breath
 
 
Of one who was his rivall foe,
With his owne dagger slaine,
He groand, and word spoke never moe,
Pierc'd through the eye and braine.
 
 
Thus did he come to suddaine ende
That was a foe to all,
And least unto himselfe a friend,
And raging passion's thrall.
 
 
Had he been brought up to the trade
His father follow'd still,
This exit he had never made,
Nor played a part soe ill.
 
 
Take warning ye that playes doe make,
And ye that doe them act;
Desist in time for Wormall's sake,
And thinke upon his fact.
 
 
Blaspheming Tambolin must die,
And Faustus meete his ende;
Repent, repent, or presentlie
To hell ye must discend.
 
 
What is there, in this world, of worth,
That we should prize it soe?
Life is but trouble from our birth,
The wise do say and know.
 
 
Our lives, then, let us mend with speed,
Or we shall suerly rue
The end of everie hainous deede,
In life that shall insue.
 

Finis. Ign.

No. II

In a copy of Hero and Leander Collier found, together with other questionable matter, the following MS. notes:—"Feb. 10, 1640. Mr. [two words follow in cipher], that Marloe was an atheist, and wrot a booke against [two words in cipher,] how that it was all one man's making, and would have printed it, but it would not be suffred to be printed. Hee was a rare scholar, and made excellent verses in Latine. He died aged about 30."—"Marloe was an acquaintance of Mr. [a name follows in cipher] of Douer, whom hee made become an atheist; so that he was faine to make a recantation vppon this text, 'The foole hath said in his heart there is no God.'"—"This [the name in cipher] learned all Marloe by heart."—"Marloe was stabd with a dagger and dyed swearing."

No. III.
A NOTE ⁶⁸⁰

CONTAYNINGE THE OPINION OF ONE CHRISTOFER MARYLE, CONCERNYNGE HIS DAMNABLE OPINIONS AND JUDGMENT OF RELYGION AND SCORNE OF GODS WORDE.

From MS. Harl. 6853, fol. 320

That the Indians and many Authors of Antiquitei have assuredly written of aboue 16 thowsande yeers agone, wher Adam is proved to have leyved within 6 thowsande yeers.

He affirmeth ⁶⁸¹ That Moyses was but a Juggler, and that one Heriots can do more then hee.

That Moyses made the Jewes to travell fortie yeers in the wildernes (which iorny might have ben don in lesse then one yeer) er they came to the promised lande, to the intente that those whoe wer privei to most of his subtileteis might perish, and so an everlastinge supersticion remayne in the hartes of the people.

That the firste beginnynge of Religion was only to keep men in awe.

That it was an easye matter for Moyses, beinge brought up in all the artes of the Egiptians, to abvse the Jewes, being a rvde and grosse people.

[* * * * * * * * * *]⁶⁸²

That he [Christ] was the sonne of a carpenter, and that, yf the Jewes amonge whome he was born did crvcifye him, thei best knew him and whence he came.

That Christ deserved better to dye than Barrabas, and that the Jewes made a good choyce, though Barrabas were both a theife and a murtherer.

That yf ther be any God or good Religion, then it is in the Papistes, becavse the service of God is performed with more ceremonyes, as elevacion of the masse, organs, singinge men, shaven crownes, &c. That all protestantes ar hipocriticall Asses.

That, yf he wer put to write a new religion, he wolde vndertake both a more excellent and more admirable methode, and that all the new testament is filthely written.

[* * * * * * * * * *]⁶⁸³

That all the Appostels wer fishermen and base fellowes, nether of witt nor worth, that Pawle only had witt, that he was a timerous fellow in biddinge men to be subiect to magistrates against his conscience.

That he had as good right to coyne as the Queen of Englande, and that he was acquainted with one Poole, a prisoner in newgate, whoe hath great skill in mixture of mettalls, and havinge learned such thinges of him, he ment, thorough help of a cvnnynge stampe-maker, to coyne french crownes, pistolettes, and englishe shillinges.

That, yf Christ had instituted the Sacramentes with more cerymonyall reverence, it would have ben had in more admiracion, that it wolde have ben much better beinge administred in a Tobacco pype.

[* * * * * * * * * *]⁶⁸⁴

That one Richard Cholmelei⁶⁸⁵ hath confessed that he was perswaded by Marloes reason to become an Athieste.

Theis thinges, with many other, shall by good and honest men be proved to be his opinions and common speeches, and that this Marloe doth not only holde them himself, but almost in every company he commeth, perswadeth men to Athiesme, willinge them not to be afrayed of bugbeares and hobgoblins, and vtterly scornynge both God and his ministers, as I Richard Bome [sic] will justify bothe by my othe and the testimony of many honest men, and almost all men with whome he hath conversed any tyme will testefy the same: and, as I thincke, all men in christianitei ought to endevor that the mouth of so dangerous a member may be stopped.

He sayeth moreover that he hath coated ⁶⁸⁶ a number of contrarieties out of the scriptures, which he hath geeven to some great men, who in convenient tyme shalbe named. When theis thinges shalbe called in question, the witnesses shalbe produced.

Rychard Bame.

(Endorsed) Copye of Marloes blasphemyes as sent to her H[ighness].

[Now-a-days inquiries as to the age of the earth are of interest only to Geologists; and all may criticise with impunity the career of Moses—provided that they do not employ the shafts of ridicule too freely. Marlowe's strictures on the New Testament—grossly exaggerated by the creature who penned the charges—were made from the literary point of view. We should blame nobody to-day for saying that the language of Revelations is poor and thin when compared with the language of Isaiah. Again, as to the statement that Romanism alone is logical, and that Protestantism has no locus standi,—has not the doctrine been proclaimed again and again in our own day by writers whom we all respect? The charge that Marlowe had announced his intention of coining French crowns is so utterly absurd as to throw discredit upon all the other statements. It must be remembered that the testimony was not upon oath, and that the deponent was a ruffian.]

No. IV

An edition of Marlowe cannot be more fitly concluded than by a reprint of Mr. R. H. Horne's noble and pathetic tragedy, The Death of Marlowe (originally published in 1837), one of the few dramatic pieces of the present century that will have any interest for posterity. For permission to reprint this tragedy I am indebted to Mr. Horne's literary executor, Mr. H. Buxton Forman.

THE DEATH OF MARLOWE

SCENE I

Public Gardens—Liberty of the Clink, Southwark

Enter Marlowe and Heywood.

Heywood

 
Be sure of it.
 

Marlowe

 
I am; but not by your light.
 

Heywood

 
I speak it not in malice, nor in envy
Of your good fortune with so bright a beauty;
But I have heard such things!
 

Marlowe

 
Good Master Heywood,
I prithee plague me not with what thou'st heard;
I've seen, and I do love her—and, for hearing,
The music of her voice is in my soul,
And holds a rapturous jubilee 'midst dreams
That melt the day and night into one bliss.
 

Heywood

 
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?
 

Marlowe

 
I feel thy power.
 

Cecilia

 
I exercise no arts—
Whence is my influence?
 

Marlowe

 
From heaven, I think.
Madam, I love you—ere to-day you've seen it,
Although my lips ne'er breathed the word before;
And seldom as we've met and briefly spoken,
There are such spiritual passings to and fro
'Twixt thee and me—though I alone may suffer—
As make me know this love blends with my life;
Must branch with it, bud, blossom, put forth fruit,
Nor end e'en when its last husks strew the grave,
Whence we together shall ascend to bliss.
 

Cecilia

 
Continued from this world?
 

Marlowe

 
Thy hand, both hands;
I kiss them from my soul!
 

Cecilia

 
Nay, sir, you burn me—
Let loose my hands!
 

Marlowe

 
I loose them—half my life has thus gone from me!—
That which is left can scarce contain my heart,
Now grown too full with the high tide of joy,
Whose ebb, retiring, fills the caves of sorrow,
Where Syrens sing beneath their dripping hair,
And raise the mirror'd fate.
 

Cecilia

 
Then, gaze not in it,
Lest thou should'st see thy passing funeral.
I would not—I might chance to see far worse.
 

Marlowe

 
Thou art too beautiful ever to die!
I look upon thee, and can ne'er believe it.
 

Cecilia

 
O, sir—but passion, circumstance, and fate,
Can do far worse than kill: they can dig graves,
And make the future owners dance above them,
Well knowing how 'twill end. Why look you sad?
'Tis not your case; you are a man in love—
At least, you say so—and should therefore feel
A constant sunshine, wheresoe'er you tread,
Nor think of what's beneath. But speak no more:
I see a volume gathering in your eye
Which you would fain have printed in my heart;
But you were better cast it in the fire.
Enough you've said, and I enough have listened.
 

Marlowe

 
I have said naught.
 

Cecilia

 
You have spoken very plain—
So, Master Marlowe, please you, break we off;
And, since your mind is now relieved—good day!
 

Marlowe

 
Leave me not thus!—forgive me!
 

Cecilia

 
For what offence
 

Marlowe

 
The expression of my love.
 

Cecilia

 
Tut! that's a trifle.
Think'st thou I ne'er saw men in love before?
Unto the summer of beauty they are common
As grasshoppers.
 

Marlowe

 
And to its winter, lady?
 

Cecilia

 
There is no winter in my thoughts—adieu!
 

Exit.

Marlowe

 
She's gone!—How leafless is my life!—My strength
Seems melted—my breast vacant—and in my brain
I hear the sound of a retiring sea.
 

Exit