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The Works of Christopher Marlowe

They will talk still my Lord, if you doe not bridle them.

See now my Lord how brave the Captaine hangs.

Alas my Lord, how should our bleeding harts

Wounded and broken with your Highnesse griefe,

Retaine a thought of joy, or sparke of life?

Your soul gives essence to our wretched subjects ,

Whose matter is incorporat in your flesh.

With what a flinty bosome should I joy,

The breath of life, and burthen of my soule,

If not resolv'd into resolved paines,

My bodies mortified lineaments

Should exercise the motions of my heart,

Pierc'd with the joy of any dignity?

O father, if the unrelenting eares

Of death and hell be shut against my praiers,

And that the spightfull influence of heaven,

Denie my soule fruition of her joy,

How should I step or stir my hatefull feete,

Against the inward powers of my heart,

Leading a life that onely strives to die,

And plead in vaine, unpleasing soverainty.

Heavens witnes me, with what a broken hart

And damned spirit I ascend this seat,

And send my soule before my father die,

His anguish and his burning agony.

Meet heaven and earth, and here let al things end,

For earth hath spent the pride of all her fruit,

And heaven consum'd his choicest living fire.

Let earth and heaven his timelesse death deplore,

For both their woorths wil equall him no more.