Flee to thy kindred sun, rolling on high!
Or let the hoary and eternal sea
Sweep me away, and swallow body and soul!
Jacconot.
There'll be no "encore" to either, I wot; for thou'st led an ill life, Master Marlowe; and so the sweet Saint thou spok'st of, will remain my fair game—behind the scenes.
Marlowe.
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—