Dead, like a dog upon the road; Dead, for a harlot's kiss; The Apollonian throat and brow, The lyric lips, so silent now, The flaming wings that heaven bestowed For loftier airs than this!
The sun-like eyes whose light and life Had gazed an angel's down, That burning heart of honey and fire, Quenched and dead for an apple-squire, Quenched at the thrust of a mummer's knife, Dead--for a taffeta gown!
The wine that God had set apart, The noblest wine of all, Wine of the grapes that angels trod, The vintage of the glory of God, The crimson wine of that rich heart, Spilt in a drunken brawl,
Poured out to make a steaming bath That night in the Devil's Inn, A steaming bath of living wine Poured out for Circe and her swine, A bath of blood for a harlot To supple and sleek her skin.
And many a fool that finds it sweet Through all the years to be, Crowning a lie with Marlowe's fame, Will ape the sin, will ape the shame, Will ape our captain in defeat; But--not in victory;
Till Art become a leaping-house, And Death be crowned as Life, And one wild jest outshine the soul Of Truth ... O, fool, is this your goal? You are not our Kit Marlowe, But the drunkard with the knife;
Not Marlowe, but the Jack-o'-Lent That lured him o'er the fen! O, ay, the tavern is in its place, And the punk's painted smiling face, But where is our Kit Marlowe The man, the king of men?
Passion? You kiss the painted mouth, The hand that clipped his wings, The hand that into his heart she thrust And tuned him to her whimpering lust, And played upon his quivering youth As a crowder plucks the strings.
But he who dared the thunder-roll, Whose eagle-wings could soar, Buffeting down the clouds of night, To beat against the Light of Light, That great God-blinded eagle-soul, We shall not see him, more."
THWACK! _Thwack_! One early dawn upon our door I heard the bladder of some motley fool Bouncing, and all the dusk of London shook With bells! I leapt from bed,--had I forgotten?--I flung my casement wide and craned my neck Over the painted Mermaid. There he stood, His right leg yellow and his left leg blue, With jingling cap, a sheep-bell at his tail, Wielding his eel-skin bladder,--_bang! thwack! bang!_--Catching a comrade's head with the recoil And skipping away! All Bread Street dimly burned Like a reflected sky, green, red and white With littered branches, ferns and hawthorn-clouds; For, round Sir Fool, a frolic morrice-troop Of players, poets, prentices, mad-cap queans, Robins and Marians, coloured like the dawn, And sparkling like the greenwood whence they came With their fresh boughs all dewy from the dark, Clamoured, _Come down! Come down, and let us in!_ High over these, I suddenly saw Sir Fool Leap to a sign-board, swing to a conduit-head, And perch there, gorgeous on the morning sky, Tossing his crimson cockscomb to the blue And crowing like Chanticleer, _Give them a rouse! Tickle it, tabourer! Nimbly, lasses, nimbly! Tuck up your russet petticoats and dance! Let the Cheape know it is the first of May!_