Yet stay, for rather than I’ll look on them,
Here, here!—Now, sweet God of Heaven,
Make me despise this transitory pomp,
And sit for aye enthronizèd in Heaven!
Come, Death, and with thy fingers close my eyes,
Or, if I live, let me forget myself.”
Surely one might fancy that to be from the prentice hand of Shakespeare. It is no small distinction that this can be said of Marlowe, for it can be said of no other. What follows is still finer. The ruffian who is to murder Edward, in order to evade his distrust, pretends to weep. The king exclaims:—
“Weep’st thou already? List awhile to me,
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney’s is,
Or as Matrevis’, hewn from the Caucasus,