How so? He knoweth her for what she is, as well as for what she was;—the high-spirited and once virtuous wife of the drunkard Bengough. You remember him?
Heywood.
I have seen him i' the mire. 'Twas his accustomed bed o' nights—and morning, too—many a time. He preferred that to the angel he left at home. Some men do. 'Tis a sorrow to think upon.
Middleton.
And one that tears cannot wash! Master Marlowe hath too deep a reading i' the books of nature to nail his heart upon a gilded weathercock. He is only desperate after the fashion of a pearl diver. When he hath enough he will desist—breathe freely, polish the shells, and build grottoes.
Heywood.
Nay, he persisteth in not knowing her for a courtesan—talks of her purity in burning words, that seem to glow and enhance his love from his convictions of her virtue; then suddenly falls into silent abstraction, looking like a man whose eyes are filled with visions of Paradise. No pains takes she to deceive him; for he supersedes the chance by deceiving himself beyond measure. He either listens not at all to intimation, or insists the contrary.
Middleton.
This is his passionate aggravation or self will: he must know it.
Heywood.