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.