'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!