Cla. Deare Mother, please you walke Into your Chamber: here the wind is cold And may disease your weaknes.
Mag. Here is your vayle, and't please your ladiship.
Lady. Let me alone, you trouble me; I feele
A soddaine change; each organ of my soule
Suffers a strong vicissitude; and, though
I do detest a voluntary death,
My Conscience tells me that it is most iust
That the cursd author of such impious ills
Ought not to live.
Tho. O thinke not soe: those words
Retaine affinity with that passion
I hop'd youd left. The greatest of your Sinns
Mercy will smile at, when you doe implore
Its unconsuming grace: the dullest cloud
Will, when you pray, be active as the ayre
In opening to receive that breath to heaven
Thats spent to purge your ills. Why, you may live
To make a faire lustration for your faults
And die a happie Convert.
[Ho]llow within: Follow, follow, follow! that way he went.
Enter Young Marlowe, Alexander, [Consta]ble and [office]rs.
Y. M. Hell, I will flie no farther; since my hand Is guilt in murder it shall sacrifice Some of my apprehenders.
Tho. Whats the matter? Deare Sir, what ayles you?
Lady. O my Sonne! I feare.
Alex. Stand back, goe to; what meanes this rudenes. I say goe to, keepe back.