| 117 & 118 ... for my owne honour if hee come in: therefore out of my loue for you, I came hither to acquaint you withall, | In Romeo 'n' Iuliet my effort t' uoice our queer emotion of too much ioy hath an ache for her. Why we fall, you |
| 119 & 120 ... that either you might stay him from his intendment, or brooke such disgrace well as he shall runne into, | see, may haue t' do with Fortune's rollin' globe – damn her! 'Tis mere il chance, not the stars mouin' h-hi i' th' sky! Gr– |
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Kit and Rita were not "starre-crost lovers," as he calls Romeo and Juliet in the quarto versions of his play. And in Midsummer Night's Dream, Kit blames himself – many times, between the lines – for Rita's death. |
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| 121 & 122 ... in that it is a thing of his owne search, and altogether against my will. / Charles, | ief, the il, th' tragic end 'n' loss I sing, al wil shame him to go rather than stay. Can a |
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him. Romeo died. Kit took the baby and went to Spain. |
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| 123 & 124 ... I thanke thee for thy loue to me, which thou shalt finde I will most kindly requite: I had myselfe | man stay to liue in th h-home of his dead loue, with their child? Is he queer t' flee? Know my Kit'l fly t ' |
| 125 & 126 ... notice of my Brothers purpose heerein, and haue by vnder-hand meanes laboured to disswade him from it, but he is resolute. | Sevil, t' stay free i' th' home of an honest man. Dumb, I'd depend on a horse carryin' me ouer bad riuer boulders, but see, we stop, h-hi. |
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home of an honest man. The honest man was Cervantes. Note early colloquial use of 'dumb. ' |
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| 127 & 128 Ile tell thee, Charles, it is the stubbornest yong fellow of France, full of ambition, an enuious emulator | Nan crosses on a log with ye little babe. UUe let th' horses climb o'er a tuff uallie floor 'n' mount, feelin' fit. |
| 129 & 130 ... of euery mans good parts, a secret & (and) villanous contriuer against mee his naturall brother: | UUe sail t' Valencia. Horrors! R f...... couu resists boardin' – 'n' all R M T hope 'n' anger – t' stay at Genoa. Deem |
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couu resists. Their milk cow refuses to walk up the gangplank. She'd had enough already, crossing the Appenines. |
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| 131 & 132 ... therefore vse thy discretion, I had as liefe thou didst breake his necke as his finger. And thou wert best | it insane! UUater everywhere 'n' the babe has no food! Chris-s-t- – free this child! God, strike Kit dead! Fie! She's |
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A double-edged cipher. (We hear the baby screaming.) Chris-s-t-t! Free Kit! God! Strike this child dead! Fie! She's – |
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| 133 & 134 ... looke to't; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace, or if hee doe not mightilie grace himselfe on thee, | tired. She took a little dose of grog, 'n' tho' hungry fel into rest. Ah, if I c'd goe hi aloft, she home, C? Ei, Ei! Imm– |
| 135 & 136 ... hee will practice against thee by poyson, entrap thee by some treacherous deuice, and neuer leaue thee | ediate attention t' nourishment is necessary: a heauy brew o' clear uegee broth c'd help. Peel ye peach. Eue– |
| 137 & 138 ... till he hath tane thy life by some indirect meanes or other: for I assure thee, (and almost with tears I speake it) | ry food Nan tried, th' stormy weather brot up – Ei, ei, ei! Till (SOS!) at last I-I flee th' rank cheesie mess (ha ha ha!) t' meet |
| 139 & 140 ... there is not one so young, and so villanous this day liuing. I speake but brotherly of him but | bo'sun 'n' sailors tryin' t' stop a leak before yt got bad. I yell "Hu-Hu," 'n' go ioin 'em. U shove in this du– |
| 141 & 142 ... should I anathomize him to thee as hee is, I must blush, and weepe, and thou must looke pale and wonder. | b-size 'n' poke it till it's tite. Now do another: Hem! Hum! Heh! 'N' soon – Aha! See how uue amass a muddle-puddle, a– |
| 143 & 144 I am heartily glad I came hither to you: if hee come to morrow, Ile giue him his payment: | uoid al ye high water that might haue come in miles from ye home port. Ei, i, i! Ye lacrimo– |
| 145 & 146 ... if euer hee goe alone againe, Ile neuer wrastle for prize more: and so God keepe your worship. | se one slept on. Euery waue rolled 'n' poured foggie hazie air o'er her fair skin. We goe more pea– |
| 147 & 148 Farewell good Charles. Now will I stirre this Gamester: I hope I shall see an end of him for my soule | cefully. A distant Spanish shore glimmers. Ere long we'l moor i' the swell of a road. How Irish I feel! E– |
| 149 & 150 (yet I know not why) hates nothing more than he( e): yet hee's gentle, neuer school'd, and yet learned, | 'en t' go o'er th' mountain, we'll need t' talk t' these strangers – indeed! How? "Hey, hey, hey, hey?" Can no one |
| 151 & 152 ... full of noble deuise, of all sorts enchantingly beloued, and indeed so much in the heart of the world, | go on with us to th' road-end? If Nan'll lend reales dobles, I'll offer them 'n' can feed ye child. UUe bot us ho– |
| 153 & 154 ... and especially of my owne people, who best know him, that I am, altogether misprised: but | rses, 'n' we start by moonlight, with a map. People beckon me – I deem yt a hold-up; a thief wil so |
| 155 & 156 ... it shall not be so long, this wrastler shall cleare all: nothing remaines but that I kindle the boy | call, then rob. These, tho', B trauellers awaitin' daylight in a tent. Sh, sh! I'll go in, tell o' loss 'n' make br– |
| 157 & 158 ... thither, which now Ile goe about. I pray thee Rosalind, sweet my Coz, be merry. Deere Cellia; | azen cries: "Aid my staruin' child! Help her to a cow! Go wi' me o'er ye hill to ye bee tree t' brew h– |
| 159 & 160 I show more mirth then I am mistresse of, and would You yet were merrier: vnlesse you could teach me to forget | oney-m-mush t' end R anguish, or remit, O, remit – R cow!" We've set out for ye tree. Her death is so woefully close! I'm mad– |
| 161 & 162 a banished father, you must not learne mee how to remember any extraordinary pleasure. | dened by worry; I lean arrear to lift a bee-nest 'n' expose the honey. A smart moue? Ha! A murmur |
| 163 & 164 Heerein I see thou lous't mee not with the full waight that I loue thee; if my Vncle thy banished father | arose: bees settled on me 'n' hit, hit, hit, hit, hit, hit! We wage heavy uuar 'n' clout them on th' fly. I feel fulee h– |
| 165 & 166 ... had banished thy Vncle the Duke my father, so thou hadst beene still with mee, I could haue taught my loue | eartless, takin' th' bee food. Do it! Ye child must eat, huh? Be made wel, uh-huh! Steal hunney! Go t' ye child! VVhat m– |
| 167 & 168 to take thy father for mine; so wouldst thou, if the truth of thy loue to me were so righteously temper'd | ore t-t-t' do? I go off t' hide. Haue U euer felt ye hot hurt? I was lost – lost there. No rest! O, m-my mother, whup Kyt f– |
| 169 & 170 ... as mine is to thee. / Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to reioyce in yours. / You know | or a fool! I find ye cow (ye town merchant sells one) I milk – in go ye sweets – I-I totter to you. The ui– |
| 171 & 172 ... my Father hath no childe, but I, nor none is like to have; and truely when he dies, thou shalt be his heire, | tal neat fluid is welcome t' ye, babe. H-h-h-hooray! The uuorst is o'er, 'n' Dad's euen kneelin' t' th' h-h-h-h-hiier, in– |
| 173 & 174 ... for what hee hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee againe in affection: | ner hooray, a-a prayer, thankin' God for her fit life. Ie! I felt there what few men can teach: the awf– |
| 175 & 176 ... by mine honor I will, and when I breake that oath, let mee turne monster: therefore my sweet Rose, | ul e-easy breath o' death with no restraynt – e'en here, when we're not lookin'. I'm blest t' m-mire R foe! M– |
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e-easy breath o' death. When Marlowe was a child in Canterbury, two little half-brothers died as babies, one at two weeks, one perhaps a month old. Kate may have given them "grog" to let them slip away easily, as Kit's own baby might have gone. |
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| 177 & 178 ... my deare Rose, be merry. / From henceforth I will Coz, and deuise sports: let me see, | ay ye ride from Venice t' fresh horizons. Proceed: let R dreams seem so well met b– |
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Marlowe shows how people pray: first they thank God; say they have been blessed; then they ask for something, and soon they are telling Him what to do. |
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| 179 & 180 ... what thinke you of falling in Loue? / Marry I prethee doe, to make sport withal: but loue | y reality that fortune'l smile! Amen! But w-wil God like or approue of Kit? Oh, no! "Haue the |
| 181 & 182 ... no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neyther, then with safety of a pure blush | mountain rise steeper 'n' th' riuer run faster, 'n' poor Nan B lost on th' way," Oy! F... F... God! (he, he!) " 'N' th' |
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(he, he!). Just kidding. |
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| 183 & 184 ... thou maist in honor come off againe. / What shall be our sport then? Let vs sit and mocke the good | forests blacker!" I go on, feelin' doom'd, 'n' see – Ho hoo! A path cuts thru th' main one. It mvst go al th' wa– |
| 185 & 186 ... houswife Fortune from her wheele, that her gifts may henceforth bee bestowed equally. / I would wee could | y to some quiet hidden hotel where wee c'd rest 'n' feed ye babe. We follow it f-for h-hours! Woe! U'l laugh at mee for such |
| 187 & 188 ... for her benefits are mightily misplaced, and the bountifull blinde woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women. | a wise fool! Pe-u! At dusk we'l find its end – an M T clearin' – nothin' t' shelter ye babe from th' night m-mist. Oh, grief! M-mi blood |
| 189 & 190 'Tis true, for those that she makes faire, she scarce makes honest,(&) and those that she makes honest, she makes very illfauouredly. | rushes t-tu mi shaken heart. Milk – no food! Th' roof a starry sky. A trucvlent owl seeks t' shame me as, safe, he'd chastise: "He-e-e-!" S-see the ha– |
| 191 & 192 Nay now thou goest from Fortune's office to natures: Fortune reignes in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments | lf moon shine on horses 'n' M T cow out gettin' grass, Nan goin' off f'r water, elfin one free t' t-tout her identity. So feuu |
| 193 & 194 ... of Nature. / No, when Nature hath made a faire creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire? | men haue been here that th' earth's a new audience for my innouatiue frontal foray. O, f-flatt'r R |
| 195 & 196 though nature hath giuen vs wit to flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this foole to cut off | fool! UUhen it's lit we're off. Foot-foot it thrv th' forest to get Nan a tent – 'n' h-hang th' cost! U uuin uuhat |
| 197 & 198 ... the argument? / Indeed there is fortune too hard for nature when fortune makes natures naturall, | Fortune allows. UUe'ue made a run, found that tent in trade, 'n' Nan rests from her hike. Age, the terror |
| 199 & 200 ... the cutter off of natures witte. / Peraduenture this is not Fortunes work neither, but Natures, | of th' unfit, stares at her. I, u-unfit, cook 'n' serue, 'n' twist 'n' putter tu restore her before we'd uuant tu |
| 201 & 202 ... who perceiueth our naturall wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, hath sent this Naturall for our whetstone. | s-start on th' siluan path ere food runs out. Saue th' horses! We'll go afoot. Th' wee child'l ride out o' th' sun. We run lost acr– |
| 203 & 204 for alwaies the dulnesse of the foole, is the whetstone of the wits. How now Witte, whether wander you? | oss stones, see nothin' on the far side, h-hi or low. Woe! We towel tuf wet feet. Why trauel i' th' heat? Few do. Wh– |
| 205 & 206 Mistresse, you must come away to your father. / Were you made the messenger? / No by mine honor, but I was bid | y not moue ahead at sunset? So which is ye way t' goe? We'ue some doubts, 'n' – 'n' you may remember mi f...... error. Bi str– |
| 207 & 208 ... to come for you / Where learned you that oath foole? / Of a certain Knight, that swore by his Honour they were good | ategic tracin' we found th' way. After R feed 'n' a rest, we began th' hot, hot, hy, hy, miles o' heet. O, horror! O, U. . . Looky, U! Oooo! |
| 209 & 210 ... Pan-cakes, and swore by his Honor the Mustard was naught: Now Ile stand to it, the Pancakes were naught, and the | We saw a man lyin' in th' path, stretched on th' ground near a rock. Was he dead? No, he was panting: "O take th' best! Su-su– |
| 211 & 212 ... Mustard was good, and yet was not the Knight forsworne. / How proue you that in the great heape | suppose U stand 'n' take what ye want o' my things – I go now t' feed great Death. U who are th' horror o' |
| 213 & 214 ... of your knowledge? / I marry, now vnmuzzle your wisdome. / Stand you both forth now: stroke your chinnes, | decent men, work on, U! Fil your bags! Try on my remnant shirts for size! O, U, U who drove down – why, U look – Oy! Z! |
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Z!. Delirious, the heat-stricken youth sleeps. |
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| 215 & 216 ... and sweare by your beards that I am a knaue. / By our beards (if we had them) thou art. / By my knauerie (if I had it) | I shade 'im, bathe his brow, wait for ye fried brayn t' uuake. Nan makes broth – but he may die. Ay! UU'd a ray dart e– |
| 217 & 218 ... then I were: but if you sweare by that that is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this Knight swearing by his Honor, | asy restoration o' his sight 'n' sanity afore we must start on our hike – 'n' who R U, booby nit-wit? Why 'n' wherefore began th – |
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The out front lines refer to Sir John Davies, a vicious man who was a provocateur at the time of Essex's march to the palace, and who did many dishonorable deeds before and after until the end of his life. Circa 1593 he and Kit had written a book together, one part Davies' Epigrammes, the other Certain of Ovids Elegies, translated by Christopher Marlowe. Davies referred to them as the pancakes and the mustard. The book was publicly burned by Archbishop Whitgift in 1599, but a copy was discovered bound with Venus and Adonis and The Passionate Pilgrim, and reprinted, edited by the discoverer, Charles Edmonds, in 1870 (A. D. Wraight. In Search of Christopher Marlowe. NY: Vanguard, 1965). Marlowe's allusion here makes it clear that the dishonorable man, who worked undercover to provoke Essex and his followers, was the Sir John who wrote the Epigrammes. |
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| 219 & 220 ... for he neuer had anie; or if he had, he had sworne it away, before euer he saw those Pancakes or that Mustard. | y feuer? Wait – I'ue found shirts here, 'n' poems! Ee! Search no farther! Ahaa! A broken heart w'd dash th' head! A wooe– |
| 221 & 222 Prethee, who is't that thou means't? / One that old Fredericke your Father loues. / My Fathers loue is enough | r, forsaken, goes far away t' die, Uh huh! Eyes open, he mutters: "I felt lost, crauin' her loue – thot – thot the demo– |
| 223 & 224 ... to honor him enough; speake no more of him, you'l be whipt for taxation one of these daies. / The more pittie | ns took me! O, not eatin', exposed for too long t' th' hot sun, I may haue poor power t' frame mi hie hie hie hie –" Feb– |
| 225 & 226 ... that fooles may not speak wisely, what Wisemen do foolishly. / By my troth thou saiest true: For, since the little wit | ril moans follow this shy utterance. We feed him ye last o' ye honey w-wi' milk, as it's th' best hope. T-t-tut! A fool story! I! 'T– |
| 227 & 228 ... that fooles haue was silenced, the little foolerie that wise men haue makes a great shew; | is late. We ate. Can't leaue him, so heaue 'im on th' horse with Elf, see? Walk. Get ahead, test for sl– |
| 229 & 230 Heere comes Monsieur the Beu. / With his mouthfull of newes. / Which he vvill put on vs, as Pigeons feed their young. | ides. . ." Help! Come! He's beginnin' t' fal!" VVi' muscle we lift 'n' sew him t' the horse. Rough here. UUhy no poste house? I vow fu– |
| 231 & 232 Then shal we be newes – cram'd. / All the better: shalbe the more Marketable. Boon-iour Monsieur | rther on we'l see it – I'm at a lo ebb. Th' man wakes, moans: "No, but we'l hear the herder's bell ere U come b– |
| 233 & 234 ... le Beu, what's the newes? / Faire Princesse, you have lost much good sport. / Sport: of what colour? / What colour Madame? | y a-a narrow stream. Watch, see? for crown-coppers, he'l guide U to the post house. But U cd also follow him to see – uh – a m– |
| 235 & 236 How shall I aunswer you? / As wit and fortune will / Or as the destinies decrees. / Well said, that was laid on | ountain hut." We start ahead in th' wild sierra: we all sway, slide, fall down in scree. O, so U do last wishes! E– |
| 237 & 238 ... with a trowell. / Nay, if I keepe not my ranke. / Thou loosest thy old smell. / you amaze me Ladies: | ons later, we met ye lone herdzman, who – (payd!) – took us t' ye M T mail house! I! Like ye last I! of all! |
| 239 & 240 I would haue told you of good wrastling, which you haue lost the sight of. Yet tell vs the manner of the Wrastling. | We have no food. Th' lout herdsman offers little dry cuts o' goat, with stale hay. When uuill I get going south? Low hy– |
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going south. Looks as if he's heading west-southwest to Albacete, where he can get a road south. |
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| 241 & 242 I wil tell you the beginning: and if it please your Ladiships, you may see the end, for the best is yet to doe, and heere where you are, | waymen are on ye road: ye reyes dobles – uh huh – gone! I set ye tent 'n' fish – stupidly fall i' th' hole. We rise, eat. Ee-ie! – bite on a putrid dog! |
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putrid dog. roadkill. |
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| 243 & 244 ... they are comming to performe it. / Well, the beginning that is dead and buried. / There comes an old man, | Tremblin', th' madman said, "C mi home castle hidden nearby. Go there; ae'l not forget U!" We go, intrepid, en– |
| 245 & 246 and his three sons. / I could match this beginning with an old tale. / Three proper young men, of excellent growt | couraged, 'n' there behind trees is th' castle! M-most willing, we approach th' lodge 'n' try tu go in. Oh, no! N-n-nix! Flee! "H– |
| 247 & 248 ... and presence. / With bils on their neckes: Be it knowne vnto all men by these presents. / The eldest of the three, wrastled with Charles | onn!" He spoke t' th' bear. "She's chained, C? 'T's safe t' enter wi' th' babe now. Keep her stil-l-l-l, C! Sh!" 'N' silent, he led everyone in t' rest-t-t. W-we'd rem– |
| 249 & 250 ... the Dukes Wrastler, which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of his ribbes, that there is little hope of life in him: | ember that th' rest of R life. Th' parents kiss him. We reek but bathe (chilli-i-i-i), eat, feed M-moo 'n' R thin h-h-h-h-horses. We l-lie down. Car– |
| 251 & 252 So he seru'd the second, and so the third: yonder they lie, the poore old man their Father, making such | denio's true, sad story c'd make me a tenth good play – not couert, hidden or Irish – shhhh. There! Hen, feel |
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Hen. Marlowe is writing to his friend Henry Wriothesley. |
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| 253 & 254 ... pittiful dole ouer them, that all the beholders take his part with weeping. / Alas. / But what is the sport | sure there'd B but smal thot of us as th' parallel tale. Strange tho', how we aid it! Tip: hit'l wipe hit! Keep th'– |
| 255 & 256 Monsieur, that the Ladies haue lost? / Why this that I speake of. ? Thus men may grow wiser euery day. | hope for times ahead; th' readin' may assist U. Giue loue t' her always, 'n' shew some t' thy Kit thru ye |
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her. the queen. See cipher here in As You Like It, ll. 97-104: Kit's advice to Hen about how to treat his natural mother. |
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| 257 & 258 It is the first time that euer I heard breaking of ribbes was sport for Ladies. / Or, I, I promise thee. | grapeuine. Did 'Orio miss letters? I saw Babe at h-her home. Bitter pie starts off for Eire. Irish Kit. |
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Orio. Gregorio (de'Monti). Marlowe's Italian name. at h-her home. Isabel-Elizabeth, Kit's daughter, is living at Audley End with good Tom Howard as Kit writes this cipher. Bitter pie. A badly revised peace treaty is going back to Ireland. |
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| 259 & 260 But is there any else longs to see this broken Musicke in his sides? Is there yet another doates vpon rib-breaking? | No more ciphers, see? Hen, uue leave today. H-hail 'n' goodbye! S-see, s-see, s-see? Inn-inn-gratt – sr – b-br – br – Kit – Kit! O, shit, it's Kit! |
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Only lines of dialogue are counted |
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As You Like It. First Folio Of Shakespeare. Comedies, pp. 185-187.
Translations copyright© 2000 R. Ballantine.
All rights reserved.
The Home page of Roberta Ballantine's site dedicated to Christopher Marlowe
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