English Literature:
From the Middle Ages to the Restoration Period
A Course Reader
Miskolci Egyetem
2008
The Wanderer
Oft to the wanderer, weary of exile,
Cometh God's pity, compassionate love,
Though woefully toiling on wintry seas
With churning oar in the icy wave,
Homeless and helpless he fled from fate.
Thus saith the wanderer mindful of misery,
Grievous disasters, and death of kin:
''Oft when the day broke, oft at the dawning,
Lonely and wretched I wailed my woe
No man is living, no comrade left,
To whom I dare fully unlock my heart.
I have learned truly the mark of a man
Is keeping his counsel and locking his lips,
Let him think what he will! For, woe of heart
Withstandeth not fate; a failing spirit
Earneth no help. Men eager for honor
Bury their sorrow deep in the breast.
"So have I also, often in wretchedness
Fettered my feelings, far from my kin,
Homeless and hapless,° since days of old,
When the dark earth covered my dear lord's face,
And I sailed away with sorrowful heart,
Over wintry seas, seeking a gold-lord,
If far or near lived one to befriend me
With gift in the mead-hall and comfort for grief.
"Who bears it, knows what a bitter companion,
Shoulder to shoulder, sorrow can be,
When friends are no more. His fortune is exile.
Not gifts of fine gold; a heart that is frozen,
Earth's winsomeness dead. And he dreams of the hall men,
The dealing of treasure, the days of his youth,
When his lord bade welcome to wassail° and feast.
But gone is that gladness, and never again
Shall come the loved counsel of comrade and king.
"Even in slumber his sorrow assaileth,
And, dreaming he claspeth his dear lord again,
Head on knee, hand on knee, loyally laying,
Pledging his liege° as in days long past.
Then from his slumber he starts lonely-hearted,
Beholding gray stretches of tossing sea,
Seabirds bathing, with wings outspread,
While hailstorms darken, and driving snow.
Bitterer then is the bane of his wretchedness,
The longing for loved one: his grief is renewed.
The forms of his kinsmen take shape in the silence;
In rapture he greets them; in gladness he scans
Old comrades remembered. But they melt into air
With no word of greeting to gladden his heart.
Then again surges his sorrow upon him;
And grimly he spurs his weary soul
Once more to the toil of the tossing sea.
''No wonder therefore, in all the world.
If a shadow darkens upon my spirit
When I reflect on the fates of men—
How one by one proud warriors vanish
From the halls that knew them, and day by day
All this earth ages and droops unto death.
No man may know wisdom till many a winter
Has been his portion. A wise man is patient,
Not swift to anger, nor hasty of speech,
Neither too weak, nor too reckless. in war,
Neither fearful nor fain, nor too wishful of wealth,
Nor too eager in vow— ere he know the event.
A brave man must bide° when he speaketh his boast
Until he know surely the goal of his spirit.
"A wise man will ponder how dread is that doom
When all this world's wealth shall be scattered and waste
As now, over all, through the regions of earth,
Walls stand rime-covered and swept by the winds.
The battlements crumble, the wine halls decay;
Joyless and silent the heroes are sleeping
Where the proud host fell by the wall they defended.
Some battle launched on their long, last journey;
One a bird bore o'er the billowing sea;
One the gray wolf slew; one a grieving earl
Sadly gave to the grave's embrace.
The warden of men hath wasted this world
Till the sound of music and revel is stilled,
And these giant-built structures stand empty of life.
''He who shall muse on these moldering ruins,
And deeply ponder this darkling life,
Must brood on old legends of battle and bloodshed,
And heavy the mood that troubles his heart:
'Where now is the warrior? Where is the warhorse'?
Bestowal of treasure, and sharing of feast?
Alas! the bright ale cup, the byrny-clad° warrior,
The prince in his splendor —those days are long sped
In the night of the past, as if they never had been!'
And now remains only, for warriors' memorial,
A wall wondrous high with serpent shapes carved.
Storms of ash spears have smitten the earls,
Carnage of weapon, and conquering fate.
''Storms now batter these ramparts of stone;
Blowing snow and the blast of winter
Enfold the earth; night shadows fall
Darkly lowering, from the north driving
Ranging hail in wrath upon men.
Wretchedness fills the realm of earth,
And fate's decrees transform the world.
Here wealth is fleeting, friends are fleeting,
Man is fleeting, maid is fleeting;
All the foundation of earth shall fail !"
Thus spake the sage in solitude pondering.
Good man is he who guardeth his faith.
He must never too quickly unburden his breast
Of its sorrow, but eagerly strive for redress;
And happy the man who seeketh for mercy
From his heavenly Father, our fortress and strength.
Translated by Charles W. Kennedy
The Dream of the Rood
Lo! I will tell the dearest of dreams
That I dreamed in the midnight when mortal men
were slunk in slumber. Me-seemed I saw
A wondrous Tree towering in air,
Most shining of crosses compassed with light. -5
Brightly that beacon was gilded with gold;
Jewels adorned it fair at the foot,
Five on the should-beam, blazing in splendor.
Through all creation the angels of God
Beheld it shining - no cross of shame! -10
Holy spirits gazed on its gleaming,
Men upon earth and all this creation.
Wondrous that Tree, that Token of triumph,
And I a transgressor soiled with my sins!
I gazed on the Rood arrayed in glory, -15
Shining in beauty and gilded with gold,
The Cross of the Saviour beset with gems.
But through the gold-work out gleamed a token
Of the ancient evil of sinful men
Where the Rood on its right side once sweat blood. -20
Saddened and rueful, smitten with terror
At the wondrous vision, I saw the Cross
Swiftly varying vesture and hue,
Now wet and stained with the Blood outwelling,
Now fairly jewelled with gold and gems. -25
Then, as I lay there, long I gazed
In rue and sadness on my Saviour's Tree,
Of all woods worthiest, speaking these words:
'Long years ago (well yet I remember) -30
They hewed me down on the edge of the holt,
Severed my trunk; strong foemen took me,
For a spectacle wrought me, a gallows for rogues.
High on their shoulders they bore me to hilltop,
Fastened me firmly, an army of foes! -35
'Then I saw the King of all mankind
In brave mood hastening to mount upon me.
Refuse I dared not, nor bow nor break,
Though I felt earth's confines shudder in fear;
All foes I might fell, yet still I stood fast. -40
'Then the young Warrior, God, the All-Wielder,
Put off his raiment, steadfast and strong;
With lordly mood in the sight of many
He mounted the Cross to redeem mankind.
When the hero clasped me I trembled in terror, -45
But I dared not bow me nor bend to earth;
I must need stand fast. Upraised as the Rood
I held the High King, the Lord of Heaven.
I dared not bow! with black nails driven
Those sinners pierced me; the prints are clear, -50
The open wounds. I dared injure none.
They mocked us both. I was wet with blood
From the Hero's side when He sent forth His spirit.
'Many a bale I bore on that hill-side
Seeing the Lord in agony outstretched. -55
Black darkness covered with clouds God's body,
That radiant splendor. Shadow went forth
Wan under heaven; all creation wept
Bewailing the King's death. Christ was on the Cross.
'Then many came quickly, faring from far, -60
Hurrying to the Prince. I beheld it all.
Sorely smitten with sorrow in meekness I bowed
To the hands of men. From His heavy and bitter pain
They lifted Almighty God. Those warriors left me
Standing bespattered with blood; I was wounded with spears. -65
Limb-weary they laid me down, they stood at His head,
Looked on the Lord of Heaven as he lay there at rest
From His bitter ordeal all forspent. In sight of His slayers
They made Him a sepulchre carved from the shining stone;
Therein laid the Lord of triumph. At evening tide -70
Sadly they sang their dirges and wearily turned away
From their Lordly Prince; there He lay all still and alone.
'There at our station a long time we stood
Sorrowfully weeping after the wailing of men
Had died away. The corpse grew cold, -75
The fair life-dwelling. Down to earth
Men hacked and felled us, a grievous fate!
They dug a pit and buried us deep.
But there God's friends and followers found me
And graced me with treasure of silver and gold. -80
'Now may you learn, O man beloved,
The bitter sorrows that I have borne,
The work of caitiffs. But the time is come
That men upon earth and through all creation
Show me honour and bow to this sign. -85
On me a while God's Son once suffered;
Now I tower under heaven in glory attired
With healing for all that hold me in awe.
Of old I was once the most woeful of tortures,
Most hateful to all men, till I opened for them -90
The True Way of Life. Lo! the Lord of glory,
The warden of heaven, above all wood
Has glorified me as Almighty God
Has honored His Mother, even Mary herself,
Over all womankind in the eyes of men. -95
'Now I give you bidding, O man beloved,
Reveal this Vision to the sons of men,
And clearly tell of the Tree of glory
Whereon God suffered for man's many sins
And the evil that Adam once wrought of old. -100
'Death He suffered, but our Saviour rose
By virtue of His great might as a help to men.
He ascended to heaven. But hither again
He shall come unto earth to seek mankind,
The Lord Himself on the Say of Doom, -105
Almighty God with His angel hosts.
And then will He judge, Who has power of judgment,
To each man according as here on earth
In this fleeting life he shall win reward.
'Nor there may any be free from fear -110
hearing the words which the Wielder shall utter.
He shall ask before many: Where is the man
Who would taste bitter death as He did on the Tree?
And all shall be fearful and few shall know
What to say unto Christ. But none at His coming -115
Shall need to fear if he bears in his breast
This best of symbols; and every soul
From the ways of earth through the Cross shall come
To heavenly glory, who would dwell with God."
Then with ardent spirit and earnest zeal, -120
Companionless, lonely, I prayed to the Cross.
My soul was fain of death. I had endured
Many an hour of longing. It is my life's hope
That I may turn to this Token of Triumph,
I above all men, and revere it well. -125
This is my heart's desire, and all my hope
Waits on the Cross. In this world now
I have few powerful friends; they have fared hence
Away from these earthly gauds seeking the King of glory,
Dwelling now with the High Father in heaven above, -130
Abiding in rapture. Each day I dream
Of the hour when the Cross of my Lord, whereof here on earth
I once had vision, from this fleeting life may fetch me
And bring me where is great gladness and heavenly bliss,
Where the people of God are planted and stablished for ever -135
In joy everlasting. There may it lodge me
Where I may abide in glory knowing bliss with the saints.
May the Lord befriend me who on earth of old
Once suffered on the Cross for the sins of men.
He redeemed us, endowed us with life and a heavenly home. -140
Therein was hope renewed with blessing and bliss
For those who endured the burning. In that great deed
God's Son was triumphant, possessing power and strength!
Almighty, Sole-Ruling He came to the kingdom of God
Bringing a host of souls to angelic bliss, -145
To join the saints who abode in the splendour of glory,
When the Lord, Almighty God, came again to His throne.
Everyman
Everyman is late-15th-century English morality play. Called by Death, Everyman can
persuade none of his friends - Beauty, Kindred, Worldly Goods - to go with him, except Good
Deeds.
Characters
Everyman-------------------------Strength
God: Adonai----------------------Discretion
Death-----------------------------Five-Wits
Messenger------------------------Beauty
Fellowship------------------------Knowledge
Cousin----------------------------Confession
Kindred---------------------------Angel
Goods-----------------------------Doctor
Good-Deeds
HERE BEGINETH A TREATISE HOW THE HIGH FATHER OH HEAVEN SENDETH
DEATH TO SUMMON EVERY CREATURE TO COME AND GIVE ACCOUNT OF
THEIR LIVES IN THIS WORLD AND IS IN MANNER OF A MORAL PLAY.
Messenger: I pray you all give your audience,
And here this matter with reverence,
By figure a moral playThe Summoning of Everyman called it is,
That of our lives and ending shows
How transitory we be all day.
This matter is wonderous precious,
But the intent of it is more gracious,
And sweet to bear away.
The story saith,-Man, in the beginning,
Look well, and take good heed to the ending,
Be you never so gay!
Ye think sin in the beginning full sweet,
Which in the end causeth thy soul to weep,
When the body lieth in clay.
Here shall you see how Fellowship and Jollity,
Both Strength, Pleasure, and Beauty,
Will fade from thee as flower in May.
For ye shall here, how our heavenly king
Calleth Everyman to a general reckoning:
Give audience, and here what he doth say.
God:
I perceive here in my majesty,
How that all the creatures be to me unkind,
Living without dread in worldly prosperity:
Of ghostly sight the people be so blind,
Drowned in sin, they know me not for their God;
In worldly riches is all their mind,
They fear not my rightwiseness, the sharp rod;
My law that I shewed, when I for them died,
They forget clean, and shedding of my blood red;
introduction / prologue
’Remember the End’
enumeration of characters
exposition
I hanged between two, it cannot be denied;
To get them life I suffered to be dead;
I healed their feet; with thorns hurt was my head:
I could do no more than I did truly,
And now I see the people do clean forsake me.
They use the seven deadly sins damnable;
As pride, covetise, wrath, and lechery,
Now in the world be made commendable;
And thus they leave of angels the heavenly company;
Everyman liveth so after his own pleasure,
And yet of their life they be nothing sure:
I see the more that I them forbear
The worse they be from year to year;
All that liveth appaireth* fast,
Therefore I will in all the haste
Have a reckoning of Everyman’s person
For and I leave the people thus alone
In their life and wicked tempests,
Verily they will become much worse than beasts;
For now one would by envy another up eat;
Charity they all do clean forget.
I hope well that Everyman
In my glory should make his mansion,
And thereto I had them all elect;
But now I see, like traitors deject,
They thank me not for the pleasure that I to them meant,
Nor yet for their being that I them have lent;
I proffered the people great multitude of mercy,
And few there be that asketh it heartily;
They be so cumbered with worldly riches,
That needs on them I must do justice,
On Everyman living without fear.
Where art thou, Death, thou mighty messenger?
Death:
Almighty God, I am here at your will,
Your commandment to fulfil.
God:
Go thou to Everyman,
And show him in my name
A pilgrimage he must on him take,
Which he in no wise may escape;
And that he bring with him a sure reckoning
Without delay or any tarrying.
Death:
Lord, I will in the world go run over all,
And cruelly outsearch both great and small;
Every man will I beset that liveth beastly
Out of God’s laws, and dreadeth not folly;
He that loveth riches I will strike with my dart,
His sight to blind, and from heaven to depart,
Except that alms be his good friend,
In hell for to dwell, world without end.
Lo, yonder I see Everyman walking;
*is impaired
judgement
Death as messenger
life’s a pirlgrimage
foreshadowing
Full little he thinketh on my coming;
His mind is on fleshly lust and his treasure,
And great pain it shall cause him to endure
Before the Lord Heaven King.
Everyman, stand still; whither art thou going
complication / rising action
Thus gaily? Hast thou thy Maker forget?
conflict between opponents
Everyman: Why askst thou?
Wouldest thou wete*?
*know
Death:
Yea, sir, I will show you;
In great haste I am sent to thee
From God out of his great majesty.
Everyman: What, sent to me?
Death:
Yea, certainly.
Though thou have forget him here,
He thinketh on thee in the heavenly sphere,
As, or we depart, thou shalt know.
Everyman: What desireth God of me?
Death:
That shall I show thee;
A reckoning he will needs have
Without any longer respite.
Everyman: To give a reckoning longer leisure I crave;
This blind matter troubleth my wit.
The basis of conflict
Death:
On thee thou must take a long journey:
What journey?
Therefore thy book of count with thee thou bring;
For turn again thou can not by no way,
And look thou be sure of thy reckoning:
For before God thou shalt answer, and show
Thy many bad deeds and good but few;
How thou hast spent thy life, and in what wise,
Before the chief lord of paradise.
Have ado that we were in that way,
For, wete thou well, thou shalt make none attournay*.
*mediator
Everyman: Full unready I am such reckoning to give
He’s unprepared
I know thee not: what messenger art thou?
Death:
I am Death, that no man dreadeth.
For every man I rest and no man spareth;
For it is God’s commandment
That all to me should be obedient.
Everyman: O Death, thou comest when I had thee least in mind;
In thy power it lieth me to save,
he’s trying to negotiate:
Yet of my good will I give thee, if ye will be kind,
the 1st act of ignorance
Yea, a thousand pound shalt thou have,
And defer this matter till another day.
Death:
Everyman, it may not be by no way;
I set not by gold, silver nor, riches,
Ne by pope, emperor, king, duke, ne princes.
For and I would receive gifts great,
All the world I might get;
But my custom is clean contrary.
I give thee no respite: come hence, and not tarry.
Everyman: Alas, shall I have no longer respite?
I may say Death giveth no warning:
speaking in proverbs:
To think on thee, it maketh my heart sick,
why?
For all unready is my book of reckoning.
But twelve year and I might have abiding,
My counting book I would make so clear,
That my reckoning I should not need to fear.
Wherefore, Death, I pray thee, for God’s mercy,
Spare me till I provided of remedy.
Death:
Thee availeth not to cry, weep, and pray:
But haste thee lightly that you were gone the journey,
And prove thy friends if thou can.
For, wete thou well, the tide abideth no man,
proverbs
And in the world each living creature
For Adam’s sin must die of nature.
Everyman: Death, if I should this pilgrimage take,
And my reckoning surely make,
Show me, for saint charity,
Should I not come again shortly?
Death:
No, Everyman; and thou be once there,
Thou mayst never more come here,
Trust me verily.
Everyman: O gracious God, in the high seat celestial,
exclamation to God
Have mercy on me in this most need;
How does he address God?
Shall I have no company from this vale terrestrial
Of mine acquaintance that way to me lead?
Death:
Yea, if any be so hardy
That would go with thee and bear thee company.
Hie thee that you were gone to God’s magnificence,
Thy reckoning to give before his presence.
What, weenest thou thy life is given thee,
And thy worldly goods also?
Everyman: I had went so verily.
Death:
Nay, nay; it was but lent thee;
life (like riches) was only lent to him
For as soon as thou art go,
Death teaches him about the facts of life
Another awhile shall have it, and then go therefor
Even as thou hast done.
Everyman, thou art mad; thou hast thou wits five,
And here on earth will not amend thy life,
For suddenly I do come.
Everyman: O wretched caitiff, whither shall I flee,
That I might scape this endless sorrow!
Now, gentle Death, spare me till to-morrow,
That I may amend me
With good advisement.
Death:
Nay, thereto I will not consent,
Nor no man will I respite,
But to the heart suddenly I shall smite
Without any advisement.
And now out of thy sight I will me hie;
See thou make thee ready shortly,
For thou mayst say this is the day
That no man living may escape away.
Everyman; Alas, I may well weep with sighs deep;
Now have I no manner of company
To help me in my journey, and me to keep;
And also my writing is full unready.
How shall I do now for to excuse me?
I would to God I had never be gete*!
To my soul a great profit it had be;
For now I fear pains huge and great.
The time passeth; Lord, help that all wrought;
For though I mourn it availeth nought.
The day passeth, and is almost a-go;
I wot not well what for to do.
To whom were I best my complaint do make?
What, and I to Fellowship thereof spake,
And show him of this sudden chance?
For in him is all my affiance;
We have in the world so many a day
Be on good friends in sport and play.
I see him yonder, certainly;
I trust that he will bear me company;
Therefore to him will I speak to ease my sorrow.
Well met, good Fellowship, and good morrow!
Fellowship: Everyman, good morrow by this day.
Sir, why lookest thou so piteously?
If anything be amiss, I pray thee, me say,
That I may help to remedy.
Everyman: Yea, good Fellowship, yea,
I am in great jeopardy.
Fellowship: My true friend, show me your mind;
I will not forsake thee, unto my life’s end,
In the way of good company.
Everyman: That was well spoken, and lovingly.
Fellowship: Sir, I must needs know your heaviness;
I have pity to see you in any distress;
If any have you wronged ye shall revenged be,
Though I on the ground be slain for thee,Though that I know before that I should die.
Everyman: Verily, Fellowship, gramercy.
Fellowship: Tush! by thy thanks I set not a straw.
Show me your grief, and say no more.
Everyman: If I my heart should to you break,
And then you to turn your mind from me,
And would not me comfort, when you here me speak,
Then should I ten times sorrier be.
Fellowship: Sir, I say as I will do in deed.
Everyman: Then be you a good friend at need;
I have found you true here before.
*been born
1) Fellowship
proverbs
Fellowship: And so ye shall evermore;
For, in faith, and thou go to Hell
I will not forsake thee by the way!
Everyman: Ye speak like a good friend; I believe you well;
I shall deserve it, and I may.
Fellowship: I speak of no deserving, by this day.
For he that will say and nothing do
Is not worthy with good company to go;
Therefore show me the grief of your mind,
As to your friend most loving and kind.
Everyman: I shall show you how it is;
Commanded I am to go on a journey,
A long way, hard and dangerous,
And give a strait count without delay
Before the high judge Adonai*.
*God
Wherefore I pray you bear me company,
As ye have promised, in this journey.
Fellowship: That is a matter indeed! Promise is duty,
But, and I should take such a voyage on me,
I know it well, it should be to my pain:
Also it make me afeard, certain.
But let us take counsel here as well we can,
For your words would fear a strong man.
Everyman Why, ye said, If I had need,
Ye would me never forsake, quick nor dead,
Though it were to hell truly.
Fellowship: So I said, certainly,
But such pleasures be set aside, thee sooth to say:
And also, if we took such a journey,
When should we come again?
Everyman: Nay, never again till the day of doom.
Fellowship: In faith, then will not I come there!
Who hath you these tidings brought?
Everyman: Indeed, Death was with me here
Fellowship: Now, by God that all hath brought,
If Death were the messenger,
For no man that is living to-day
I will not go that loath journeyNot for the father that begat me!
Everyman: Ye promised other wise, pardie.
Fellowship: I wot well I say so truly;
And yet if thou wilt eat, and drink, and make good cheer,
Or haunt to women, the lusty companion,
I would not forsake you, while the day is clear,
Trust me verily!
Everyman: Yea, thereto ye would be ready;
To go to mirth, solace, and play,
Your mind will sooner apply
Than to bear me company in my long journey.
Fellowship: Now, in good faith, I will not that way.
But and thou wilt murder, or any man kill,
In that I will help thee with a good will!
Everyman: O that is a simple advice indeed!
Gentle fellow, help me in my necessity;
We have loved long, and now I need,
And now, gentle Fellowship, remember me.
Fellowship: Whether ye have loved me or no,
By Saint John, I will not with thee go.
Everyman: Yet I pray thee, take the labour, and do so much for me
To bring me forward, for saint charity,
And comfort me till I come without the town.
Fellowship: Nay, and thou would give me a new gown,
I will not a foot with thee go;
But and you had tarried I would not have left thee so.
And as now, God speed thee in thy journey,
For from thee I will depart as fast as I may.
Everyman: Whither away, Fellowship? Will you forsake me?
Fellowship: Yea, by my fay, to God I betake thee.
Everyman: Farewell, good Fellowship; for this my heart is sore;
Adieu for ever, I shall see thee no more.
Fellowship: In faith, Everyman, farewell now at the end; Fellowship forsakes him
For you I will remember that parting is mourning.
Everyman: Alack! Shall we thus depart indeed?
Our Lady, help, without any more comfort,
Lo, Fellowship forsaketh me in my most need:
For help in this world whither shall I resort?
Fellowship herebefore with me would merry make;
And now little sorrow for me doth he take.
It is said, in prosperity men friends may find,
What’s E.’s conlcusion?
Which in adversity be fully unkind.
Now whither for succour shall I flee,
Sith that Fellowship hath forsaken me?
To my kinsmen I will truly,
Praying them to help me in my necessity;
I believe that they will do so,
For kind will creep where it may not go.
I will go say, for yonder I see them go.
Where be ye now, my friends and kinsmen?
2) relatives
Kindred: Here be we now at your commandment.
Cousin, I pray you show us your intent
In any wise, and not spare.
Cousin: Yea, Everyman, and to us declare
If ye be disposed to go any whither,
For wete you well, we will live and die together.
Kindred: In wealth and woe we will with you hold,
For over his kin a man may be bold.
Everyman: Gramercy, my friends and kinsmen kind.
Now shall I show you the grief of my mind:
I was commanded by a messenger,
That is a high king’s chief officer;
He bade me go on a pilgrimage to my pain,
And I know well I shall never come again;
Also I must give a reckoning straight,
For I have a great enemy, that hath me in wait,
Which intendeth me for to hinder.
Kindred: What account is that which ye must render?
That would I know.
Everyman: Of all my works I must show
How I have lived and my days spent;
Also of ill deeds, that I have used
In my time, sith life was me lent;
And of all virtues that I have refused.
Therefore I pray you thither with me,
To help to make account, for saint charity.
Cousin:
What, to go thither? Is that the matter?
Nay, Everyman, I had liefer fast bread and water
All this five year and more.
Everyman: Alas, that ever I was bore!
For now shall I never be merry
If that you forsake me.
Kindred: Ah, sir; what, ye be a merry man!
Take good heart to you, and make no moan.
But as one thing I warn you, by Saint Anne,
As for me, ye shall go alone.
Everyman: My Cousin, will you not with me go.
Cousin:
No by our Lady; I have the cramp in my toe.
Trust not to me, for, so God me speed,
I will deceive you in your most need.
Kindred:
It availeth not us to tice.
Ye shall have my maid with all my heart;
She loveth to go to feasts, there to be nice,
And to dance, and abroad to start:
I will give her leave to help you in that journey,
If that you and she may agree.
Everyman: Now show me the very effect of your mind.
Will you go with me, or abide behind?
Kindred:
Abide behind? Yea, that I will and I may!
Therefore farewell until another day.
Everyman: How should I be mary or glad?
For fair promises to me make,
But when I have most need, they me forsake.
I am deceived; that maketh me sad
Cousin:
Cousin Everyman, farewell now,
For varily I will not go with you;
Also of mine an unready reckoning
I have to account; therefore I make tarrying.
Now, God keep thee, for now I go.
Everyman: Ah, Jesus, is all come hereto?
Lo, fair words maketh fools feign;
What’s E.’s conlcusion?
They promise and nothing will do certain.
My kinsmen promised me faithfully
For to abide with me steadfastly,
And now fast away do they flee:
Even so Fellowship promised me.
What friend were best me of to provide?
I lose my time here longer to abide.
Yet in my mind a thing there is;All my life I have loved riches;
If that my good now help me might,
He would make my heart full light.
I will speak to him in this distress.3) wealth
Where art thou, my Goods and riches?
2nd act of ignorance: excessive
Goods:
Who calleth me? Everyman? What hast thou hast!
love of Goods: a Deadly
I lie here in corners, trussed and piled so high,
Sin
And in chest I am locked so fast,
Also sacked in bags, thou mayst see with thine eye,
I cannot stir; in packs low I lie.
What would ye have, lightly me say.
Everyman: Come hither, Goods, in all the hast thou may,
For of counsel I must desire thee.
Goods:
Sir, and* ye in the world have trouble or adversity, *if
That can I help you to remedy shortly.
Riches are only useful in this world
Everyman: It is another disease that grieveth me;
In this world it is not, I tell thee so.
I am sent for another way to go,
To give a straight account general
Before the highest Jupiter of all;
And all my life I have had joy and pleasure in thee.
Therefore I pray thee go with me,
For, peradventure, thou mayst before God Almighty
My reckoning help to clean and purify;
For it is said ever among,
proverbs
That money maketh all right that is wrong.
Goods:
Nay, Everyman, I sing another song,
I follow no man in such voyages;
For and I went with thee
Thou shouldst fare much the worse for me;
For because on me thou did set thy hand,
Thy reckoning I have made blotted and blind,
That thine account thou cannot make truly;
And that hast thou for the love of me.
Everyman: That would grieve me full sore,
When I should come to that fearful answer.
Up, let us go thither together.
Goods:
Nay, not so, I am, to brittle, I may not endure;
I will follow no man one foot, be ye sure.
Everyman: Alas, I have thee loved, and had great pleasure
All my life-days on good and treasure.
Goods:
That is to thy damnation without lesing,
For my love is contrary to the love everlasting.
But if thou had loved moderately during,
As, to the poor give part of me,
Then shouldst thou not in this dolour be,
Nor in this great sorrow care.
Everyman: Lo, now was I deceived or was I ware,
And all may wyte* my spending time.
Goods:
What, weenest thou that I am thine?
Everyman: I had wend so.
Goods:
Nay, Everyman, say no;
As for a while I was lent thee,
A season thou hast had me in prosperity;
My condition is man’s soul to kill;
If I save one, a thousand I do spill;
Weenest thou that I will follow thee?
Nay, from this world, not verrily.
Everyman: I had wend otherwise.
Goods:
Therefore to thy soul Good is a thief;
For when thou art dead, this is my guise
Another to deceive in the same wise
As I have done thee, and all to his soul’s reprief.
Everyman: O false Good, cursed thou be!
Thou traitor to God, that hast deceived me,
And caught me in thy snare.
Goods:
Marry, thou brought thyself in care,
Whereof I am glad,
I must needs laugh, I cannot be sad.
Everyman: Ah, Good, thou hast had long my heartly love;
I gave thee that which should be the Lord’s above.
But wilt thou not go with me in deed?
I pray thee truth to say.
Goods:
No, so God me speed,
Therefore farewell, and have good day.
Everyman: O, to whom shall I make my moan
For to go with me in that heavy journey?
First Fellowship said he would go with me gone;
His words were very pleasant and gay,
But afterward he left me alone.
Then spake I to my kinsmen all in despair,
And also they gave me words fair,
They lacked no fair speaking,
But all forsake me in the ending.
Then went I to my Goods that I loved best,
In hope to have comfort, but there had I least;
For my Goods sharply did me tell
That he bringeth many to hell.
Then of myself I was ashamed,
And so I am worthy to be blamed;
Thus may I well myself hate.
Of whom shall now counsel take?
What does Goods teach him?
*blame
What’s the moral?
What’s E.’s conclusion?
Turning point:
1st soliloguy
E.’s 2nd Deadly Sin: despair
I think that I shall never speed
Till that I go to my Good-Deed,
4) Good Deeds (charity)
But alas, she is so weak,
That she can neither go nor speak;
Yet I will venture on her now.My Good-Deeds, where be you?
Good-Deeds: Here I lie cold in the ground;
Thy sins hath me sore bound,
That I cannot stir.
Everyman: O, Good-Deeds, I stand in fear;
I must you pray counsel,
For help now should come right well.
Good-Deeds: Everyman, I have understanding
she suggests a positive course of
That ye be summoned account to make
action
Before Messias, of Jerusalem King;
And if you do by me that journey what you will I take.
Everyman: Therefore I come to you, my moan to make;
I pray you, that ye will go with me.
Good-Deeds: I would full fain, but I cannot stand verily.
Everyman: Why, is there anything on you fall?
Good-Deeds: Yea, sir, I may thank you of all;
If ye had perfectly cheered me,
without doing charitable works one
Your book of account now full ready had be.
can’t expect salvation.
Look, the books of your works and deeds eke;
Oh, see how they lie under the feet,
To your soul’s heaviness.
Everyman: Our Lord Jesus, help me!
For one letter here I can not see.
Good-Deeds: There is a blind reckoning in time of distress!
Everyman: Good-Deeds, I pray you, help me in this need,
Or else I am forever damned indeed;
Therefore help me to make reckoning
Before the redeemer of all thing,
That king is, and was, and ever shall.
Good-Deeds: Everyman, I am sorry for your fall,
And fain would I help you, and I were able.
Everyman: Good-Deeds, you counsel I pray you give me.
Good-Deeds: That shall I do verily;
Though that on my feet I may not go,
I have a sister, that shall with you also,
But charity alone
Called Knowledge, which shall you abide,
is of no use in a state of sin. First one
To help you make that dreadful reckoning.
must cleanse oneself of all sins.
Knowledge: Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide, Knowledge here means:
In thy most need to go by thy side.
acknowledgement of sins:
Everyman: In good condition I am now in every thing,
I. contrition
And am wholly content with this good thing;
Thanked be God my creator.
Good-Deeds: And when he hath brought thee there,
Where thou shalt heal thee of thy smart,
Then go with your reckoning and your Good-Deeds together
For to make you joyful at heart
Before the blessed Trinity.
Everyman: My Good-Deeds, gramercy;
I am well content, certainly,
With your words sweet.
Knowledge: Now we go together lovingly,
To Confession, that cleansing river.
Everyman: For joy I weep; I would we were there;
But, I pray you, give me cognition
Where dwelleth that holy man, Confession.
Knowledge: in the house of salvation:
i.e.: Church
We shall find him in that place,
That shall us comfort by God’s grace.
Lo, this is Confession; kneel down and ask mercy,
For he is in good conceit with God almighty.
Everyman: O glorious fountain that all uncleanness doth clarify,
That on me no sin may be seen;
II. confession
I come with Knowledge for my redemption,
Repent with hearty and full contrition;
For I am commanded a pilgrimage to take,
And great accounts before God to make.
Now, I pray you, Shrift, mother of salvation,
Help my good deeds for my piteous exclamation.
Confession: I know your sorrow well, Everyman;
Because with Knowledge ye come to me,
III. Absolution
I will you comfort as well as I can,
And a precious jewel I will give thee,
Called penance, wise voider of adversity;
Therewith shall your body chastised be,
With abstinence and perseverance in God’s service:
Here shall you receive that scourge of me,
Which is penance strong, that ye must endure,
To remember thy Saviour was scourged for thee
With sharp scourges, and suffered it patiently;
So must thou, or thou scape that that painful pilgrimage;
Knowledge, keep him in this voyage,
And by that time Good-Deeds will be with thee.
But in any wise, be sure of mercy,
For your time draweth fast, and ye will saved be;
Ask God mercy, and He will grant truly,
When with the scourge of penance man doth him bind,
The oil of forgiveness then shall he find.
Everyman: Thanked be God for his gracious work!
IV. Thanksgiving
For now I will my penance begin;
This hath rejoiced and lighted my heart,
Though the knots be painful and within.
Knowledge: Everyman, look your penance that ye fulfil,
What pain that ever it to you be,
And Knowledge shall give you counsel at will,
How your accounts you shall make clearly,
Everyman: O eternal God, O heavenly figure,
O way of rightwiseness, O goodly vision,
Which descended down in a virgin pure
Because he would Everyman redeem,
Which Adam forfeited by his disobedience:
O blessed Godhead, elect and high-divine,
Forgive my grievous offence;
Here I cry thee mercy in this presence.
O ghostly treasure, O ransomer and redeemer
Of all the world, hope and conductor,
Mirror of joy, and founder of mercy,
Which illumineth heaven and earth thereby,
Hear my clamorous complain, though it late be;
Receive my prayers; unworthy in this heavy life,
Though I be, a sinner most abominable,
Yet let my name be written in Moses’ table;
O Mary, pray to the Maker of all thing,
Me for to help at my ending,
And same me from the power of my enemy,
For Death assaileth me strongly,
And, Lady, that I may by means of they prayer
Of your Son’s glory to be partaker,
By the means of h is passion I it crave,
I beseech you, help my soul to save.
Knowledge, give me the scourge of penance;
My flesh therewith shall give a quittance;
I will now begin, if God give me grace.
Knowledge: Everyman, God give you time and space:
Thus I bequeath you in the hands of our Savior,
Thus may you make your reckoning sure.
Everyman: In the name of the Holy Trinity,
My body sore punished shall be:
Take this body for the sin of the flesh;
Also though delightest to go gay and fresh;
And in the way of damnation thou did me brine;
Therefore suffer now strokes and punishing.
Now of penance I will wade the water clear,
To save me from purgatory, that sharp fire.
Good-Deeds: I thank God, now I can walk and go;
And am delivered of my sickness and woe.
Therefore with Everyman I will go, and not spare;
His good works I will help him to declare.
Knowledge: Now, Everyman, be merry and glad;
Your Good-Deeds cometh now;
Now is your Good-Deeds whole and sound,
Going upright upon the ground.
Everyman: My heart is light, and shall be evermore;
Now will I smite faster than I did before.
Good-Deeds: Everyman, pilgrim, my special friend,
Blessed by thou without end;
E’s 2nd soliloquy:
his dying prayer
V. Penance
VI. Satisfaction
For thee is prepared the eternal glory,
Ye gave me made whole and sound,
Therefore I will bid by thee in every stound*.
*season
Everyman: Welcome, my Good-Deeds; now I hear thy voice,
I weep for very sweetness of love.
Knowledge: Be no more sad, but ever rejoice,
God seeth they living in this throne above;
Put on his garment to thy behove,
a metaphor for contrition
Which is wet with your tears,
Or else before god you may it miss,
When you to your journey’s end come shall.
Everyman: Gentle Knowledge, what do you it call?
Knowledge: It is a garment of sorrow:
From pain it will you borrow;
Contrition it is,
That getteth forgiveness;
It pleaseth God passing well.
Good-Deeds: Everyman, will you wear it for your heal?
Everyman: Now blessed by Jesu. Mary’s Son!
Falling action
From now have I on true contrition.
And let us go now without tarrying;
Good-Deeds, have we clear our reckoning?
Good-Deeds: Yea, indeed I have it here.
Everyman: Then I trust we need not fear;
Now friends, let us not part in twain.
Knowledge: Nay, Everyman, that will we not, certain.
Good-Deeds: Yet must thou lead with thee
Three persons of great might.
Everyman: Who should they be?
Good-Deeds: Discretion and Strength, they hight,
And thy Beauty may not abide behind.
Knowledge: Also ye must call to mind.
Your Five-wits as for your counsellors.
Good-Deeds: You must have them ready at all hours
Everyman: How shall I get them hinder?
Knowledge: You must call them all together,
And they will hear you incontient.
Everyman: My friends, come hither and be present
Delay:
Discretion, Strength, my Five-wits and Beauty.
Beauty:
Here at you will we be all ready.
2nd set of friends
What will ye that we should do?
parallel with 1st set of friends
Good-Deeds: That ye would with Everyman go,
And help him in his pilgrimage,
Advise you, will ye with him or not in that voyage?
Strength: We will bring him all thither,
To his help and comfort, ye may believe me.
Discretion: So will we go with him all together.
Everyman: Almighty God, loved thou be,
I give thee laud that I have hither brought
Strength, Discretion, Beauty, and Five-wits; lack I nought;
And my Good-Deeds, with Knowledge clear,
I desire no more to my business.
Strength: And I, Strength, will by you stand in distress,
Though thou would be battle fight on the ground,.
Five-Wits: And though it were through the world round,
We will not depart for sweet nor sour.
Beauty:
No more will I unto death’s hour,
Whatsoever thereof befall.
Discretion: Everyman, advise you first of all;
Go with a good advisement and deliberation;
We all give you virtuous monitiion
That all shall be well.
Everyman: My friends, harken what I will tell:
I pray God reward you in his heavenly sphere.
Now harken, all that be here,
For I will make my testament
Here before you all present.
In alms half good I will give with my hands twain
In the way of charity with good intent,
And the other half still shall remain
In quiet to be returned there it ought to be.
This I do in despite of the fiend of hell
To go quite out if his peril.
Even after and this day.
Knowledge: Everyman, hearken what I say;
Go to priesthood, I you advise,
Communion / Extreme unction
And receive of him in any wise
The holy sacrament and ointment together;
Then shortly see ye turn again hither;
We will all abide you here.
Five-Wits: Yea, Everyman, hie you that ye ready were,
There is no emperor, king, duke, ne baron,
Redemption is passed through
That of God hath commission,
the ministration of the Church
As hath the least priest in the world being;
He beareth the keys and thereof hath the cure
For man’s redemption, it is ever sure;
Which God for our soul’s medicine
Gave us out of his heart with great pine;
Here in this transitory life, for thee and me
The blessed sacraments seven there be,
Baptism, confirmation, with priesthood good,
And the sacrament of God’s precious flesh and blood,
Marriage, the holy extreme unction, and penance;
Gracious sacraments of high divinity.
Everyman: Fain would I receive that holy body
And meek to my ghostly father I will go.
Five-wits: Everyman, that is the best that ye can do:
God will you to salvation bring,
For priesthood exceedeth all other things;
To us Holy Scripture they do teach.
And converteth man from sin heaven to reach;
God hath to them more power given,
Than to any angel that is in heaven;
With five words he may consecrate
God’s body in flesh and blood to male,
And handleth his maker between his hands;
The priest bindeth and unbindeth all bands,
Both in earth and in heaven;
Thou ministers all the sacraments seven;
Though we kissed thy feet thou were worthy;
Thou art surgeon that cureth sin deadly;
No remedy we find under God
But all only priesthood.
Everyman, God gave priests that dignity,
And setteth them in his stead amount us to be;
Thus be they above angels in degree
Knowledge: If priests be good it is so surely;
But when Jesus hanged on the cross with great smart
There he gave, out of his blessed heart,
The same sacrament in great torment:
He sold them not to us, that Lord Omnipotent.
Therefore Saint Peter the apostle doth say
That Jesu’s curse hath all they
Which God their Savior do buy or sell,
Or they for any money do take or tell.
Sinful priests giveth the sinners example bad;
Their children sitteth by other men’s fires, I have heard;
And some haunteth women’s company,
With unclean life, as lusts of lechery:
These be with sin made blind.
Five-wits: I trust to God no such may we find;
Therefore let us priesthood honour,
And follow their doctrine for our souls’ succour;
We be their sheep, and they shepherds be
By whom we all be kept in surety.
Peace, for yonder I see Everyman come,
Which hath made true satisfaction.
Good-Deeds: Methinketh it is he indeed.
Everyman: Now Jesu be our alder speed*.
I have received the sacrament for my redemption,
And then mine extreme unction:
Blessed be all they that counsell me to take it!
And now, friends, let us go without longer respite;
I thank God that ye have tarried so long.
Now set each of you on this rod your hand,
And shortly follow me:
I go before, there I would be; God be our guide.
Strength: Everyman, we will not from you go,
Till ye have done this voyage long.
Discretion: I, Discretion, will bide by you also.
a moral attack on sinful priests
function: criticism and delay
* speed in help of all
Knowledge: And though this pilgrimage be never so strong,
I will never part you fro:
Everyman, I will be as sure by the
As ever I did by Judas Maccabee.
Everyman: Alas, I am so faint I may not stand,
Resolution: death of Everyman
My limbs under me do fold;
Friends, let us not turn again to this land,
Not for all the world’s gold,
For into this cave must I creep
And turn to the earth and there to sleep.
Beauty:
What into this grave? Alas!
Everyman: Yea, there shall you consume more and less.
Beauty:
And what, should I smother here?
Everyman: Yea, by my faith, and never more appear.
In this world live no more we shall,
But in heaven before the highest Lord of all.
Beauty:
I cross out all this; adieu by Saint John;
Beauty forsakes him
I take my cap in my lap and am gone.
Everyman: What, Beauty, whither will ye?
Beauty:
Peace, I am deaf; I look not behind me,
Not and thou would give me all the gold in thy chest.
Everyman: Alas, whereto may I trust?
Beauty goeth fast away hie;
She promised with me to live and die.
Strength: Everyman, I will thee also forsake and deny;
Thy game liketh me not at all.
Everyman: Why, then ye will forsake me all.
Sweet Strength, tarry a little space.
Strength: Nay, sir, by thy rood of grace
I will hie me from thee fast,
Strength forsakes him
Though thou weep till thy heart brast.
Everyman: Ye would ever bide by me, ye said.
Strength: Yea, I have you far enough conveyed;
Ye be old enough, I understand,
Your pilgrimage to take on hand;
I repent me that I hither came.
Everyman: Strength, you to displease I am to blame;
Will you break promise that is debt?
Strength: In faith, I care not;
Thou art but a fool to complain,
You spend your speech and waste your brain;
Go thrust thee into the ground.
Everyman: I had went surer I should you have found.
He that trustest in his Strength
She him deceiveth at the length.
Both Strength and Beauty forsaketh me,
Yet they promise me fair and lovingly.
Discretion: Everyman, I will after Strength be gone,
As for me I will leave you alone.
Everyman: Why, Discretion, will ye forsake me?
Discretion: Yea, in faith, I will go from thee,
Discretion forsakes him
For when Strength goeth before
I follow after evermore.
Everyman: Yet, I pray thee, for the love of the Trinity,
Look in my grave once piteously.
Discretion: Nay, so nigh will I not come.
Farewell, every one!
Everyman: O all thing faileth, save God alone;
Beauty, Strength, and Discretion;
For when Death bloweth his blast,
They all run from me full fast.
Five-wits: Everyman, my leave now of thee I take;
Five Wits forsakes him
I will follow the other, for here I thee forsake.
Everyman: O Jesu, help, all hath forsaken me!
Good-Deeds: Nay, Everyman, I will bide with thee,
I will not forsake thee indeed;
Thou shalt find me a good friend at need.
Everyman: Gramercy, Good-Deeds; now may I true friends see;
They have forsaken me every one;
I loved them better than my Good-Deeds alone.
Knowledge, will ye forsake me also?
Knowledge: Yea, Everyman, when ye to death do go;
But not yet for no manner of danger.
Everyman: Gramercy, Knowledge, with all me heart.
Knowledge: Nay, yet I will not depart from hence depart,
Till I see where ye shall be come.
Everyman: Methinketh, alas, that I must be gone,
Final moral:
To make my reckoning and my debts pay,
only Good Deeds remain
For I see my time is nigh spent away.
Take example, all ye that do hear or see,
take example
How they that I loved best do forsake me,
Except my Good-Deeds that bideth truly.
Good-Deeds: All earthly things is but vanity:
Beauty, Strength, and Discretion, do man forsake,
Foolish friends and kinsmen, that fair spake,
All fleeth save Good-Deeds, and that am I.
Everyman: Have mercy on me, God, most mighty;
And stand by me, thou Mother and Maid, holy Mary.
Good-Deeds: Fear not, I will speak for thee.
Everyman: Here I cry God mercy.
Good-Deeds: Short our end, and minish our pain;
Let us go and never come again.
Everyman: Into thy hands, Lord, my soul I commend;
E.’s dying prayers
Receive it, Lord, that it be not lost;
As thou me boughtest, so me defend,
And save me from the fiend’s boast,
That I may appear with that blessed host
That shall be saved at the day of doom.
In manus tuas- of might’s most
For ever- commendo spiritum meum.
Knowledge: Now hath he suffered that we all shall endure;
The Good-Deeds shall make all sure.
Now hath he made ending;
Methinketh that I hear angels sing
signs of E.’s salvation
And make great joy and melody,
Where Everyman’s soul received shall be.
Angel:
Come, excellent elect spouse to Jesu:
Hereabove thou shalt go
Because of thy singular virtue:
Now the soul is taken the body fro;
Thy reckoning is crystal-clear.
Now shalt thou into the heavenly sphere,
Unto the which all ye shall come
That liveth well before the day of doom.
Doctor:
This moral men may have in mind;
Epilogue: morals
Ye hearers, take it of worth, old and young,
And forsake pride, for he deceiveth you in the end,
1) Never be proud
And remember Beauty, Five-wits, Strength, and Discretion,2) be prepared for the reckoning
They all at last do Everyman forsake,
3) be repentant
Save his Good-Deeds, there doth he take.
4) be charitable
But beware, and they be small
5) never be despaired about
Before God, he hath no help at all.
God’s mercy
None excuse may be there for Everyman:
Alas, how shall he do then?
For after death amends may no man make,
For then mercy and pity do him forsake.
If his reckoning be not clear when he do come,
God will say- ite maledicti in ignem aeternum.
And he that hath his account whole and sound,
High in heaven he shall be crowned;
Unto which place God bring us all thither
That we may live body and soul together.
Thereto help the Trinity,
Amen, say ye, for saint Charity.
THUS ENDETH THIS MORALL PLAY OF EVERYMAN.
THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS
BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
FROM THE QUARTO OF 1616.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
THE POPE.
THE EMPEROR OF GERMANY.
RAYMOND, king of Hungary.
DUKE OF SAXONY.
BRUNO.
DUKE OF VANHOLT.
MARTINO, >
FREDERICK, > gentlemen.
BENVOLIO, >
FAUSTUS.
VALDES,
> friends to FAUSTUS.
CORNELIUS, >
WAGNER, servant to FAUSTUS.
Clown.
ROBIN.
DICK.
Vintner.
Horse-courser.
Carter.
An Old Man.
Scholars, Cardinals, ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS, Bishops, Monks,
Friars, Soldiers, and Attendants.
DUCHESS OF VANHOLT.
Hostess.
LUCIFER.
BELZEBUB.
MEPHISTOPHILIS.
Good Angel.
Allegorical figures
Evil Angel.
The Seven Deadly Sins.
Devils.
Spirits in the shapes of ALEXANDER THE GREAT, of his Paramour,
of DARIUS, and of HELEN.
Chorus.
THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS
FROM THE QUARTO OF 1616.
Enter CHORUS.
CHORUS. Not marching in the fields of Thrasymene,
Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens;<1>
Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,
In courts of kings where state is overturn'd;
Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,
Intends our Muse to vaunt her<2> heavenly verse:
Only this, gentles,--we must now perform
The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad:
And now to patient judgments we appeal,
And speak for Faustus in his infancy.
Now is he born of parents base of stock,
In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes:
At riper years, to Wittenberg he went,
Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.
So much he profits in divinity,
That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name,
Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute
In th' heavenly matters of theology;
Till swoln with cunning, of<3> a self-conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow;
For, falling to a devilish exercise,
And glutted now with learning's golden gifts,
He surfeits upon<4> cursed necromancy;
Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,
alchemy,
Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:
And this the man that in his study sits.
[Exit.]
FAUSTUS discovered in his study.
FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin
To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess:
Having commenc'd, be a divine in show,
Yet level at the end of every art,
And live and die in Aristotle's works.
Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me!
Bene disserere est finis logices.
Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end?
Affords this art no greater miracle?
Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that end:
A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit:
Bid Economy farewell, and Galen come:
Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold,
And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure:
Summum bonum medicinoe sanitas,
of
The end of physic is our body's health.
Why, Faustus, hast thou not attain'd that end?
Are not thy bills hung up as monuments,
Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague,
A classical device
classical references
but not a ‘proper’ play
Faustus’s life and studies
reference to Icarus
exaggerated ambition
Elizabethan magic
superstition,
withcraft (James I)
Elizabethan stage (study)
Medievalism:
drawing on authorities
intentional misinterpretation
Ancient wisdom
And thousand<5> desperate maladies been cur'd?
Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man.
Couldst thou make men to live eternally,
Or, being dead, raise them<6> to life again,
Then this profession were to be esteem'd.
Physic, farewell! Where is Justinian?
[Reads.]
Si una eademque res legatur<7> duobus, alter rem,
alter valorem rei, &c.
A petty<8> case of paltry legacies!
[Reads.]
Exhoereditare filium non potest pater, nisi, &c.<9>
Such is the subject of the institute,
And universal body of the law:
This study fits a mercenary drudge,
Who aims at nothing but external trash;
Too servile and illiberal for me.
When all is done, divinity is best:
Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well.
the queen of arts and sciences
[Reads.]
Stipendium peccati mors est.
Ha!
Stipendium, &c.
The reward of sin is death: that's hard.
False arguments: intentional blindness
1st act of blasphemy
[Reads.]
new world view: limitation of
Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas;
conventional wisdom
TRUE KNOWLEDGE
If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and there
is no truth in us. Why, then, belike we must sin, and so
consequently die:
Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera,
What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu!
These metaphysics of magicians,
he now turns to magic
And necromantic books are heavenly;
FALSE KNOWLEDGE
Lines, circles, scenes, letters, and characters;<10>
Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires.
O, what a world of profit and delight,
Of power, of honour, and omnipotence,
his ambition: insatiable thirst of power
Is promis'd to the studious artizan!
Raising the audience’s curiosity
All things that move between the quiet poles
Shall be at my command: emperors and kings
Are but obeyed in their several provinces;
But his dominion that exceeds in this,
Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man;
A sound magician is a demigod:
Here tire, my brains, to gain<11> a deity.
Enter WAGNER.
Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends,
The German Valdes and Cornelius;
Request them earnestly to visit me.
WAGNER. I will, sir.
[Exit.]
FAUSTUS. Their conference will be a greater help to me
Than all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast.
Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.
GOOD ANGEL. O, Faustus, lay that damned book aside,
And gaze not on it, lest it tempt thy soul,
And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head!
Read, read the Scriptures:--that is blasphemy.
Allegorical figures
psychomachia
EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art
Wherein all Nature's treasure is contain'd:
Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,
Lord and commander of these<12> elements.
[Exeunt ANGELS.]
FAUSTUS. How am I glutted with conceit of this!
Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please,
Resolve me of all ambiguities,
Perform what desperate enterprise<13> I will?
I'll have them fly to India for gold,
Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,
And search all corners of the new-found world
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates;
I'll have them read me strange philosophy,
And tell the secrets of all foreign kings;
I'll have them wall all Germany with brass,
And make swift Rhine circle fair<14> Wertenberg;
I'll have them fill the public schools with silk,<15>
Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad;
I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring,
And chase the Prince of Parma from our land,
And reign sole king of all the provinces;
Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war,
Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp-bridge,
I'll make my servile spirits to invent.
Enter VALDES and CORNELIUS.
Masters of the black arts
Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius,
And make me blest<16> with your sage conference.
Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius,
Know that your words have won me at the last
To practice magic and concealed arts.
Philosophy is odious and obscure;
Both law and physic are for petty wits:
'Tis magic, magic that hath ravish'd me.
Then, gentle friends, aid me in this attempt;
And I, that have with subtle syllogisms
Gravell'd the pastors of the German church,
And made the flowering pride of Wittenberg
Swarm<17> to my problems, as th' infernal spirits
On sweet Musaeus when he came to hell,
Will be as cunning as Agrippa was,
Whose shadow made all Europe honour him.
VALDES. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience,
Shall make all nations to<18> canonize us.
As Indian Moors obey their Spanish lords,
So shall the spirits of every element
Be always serviceable to us three;
Like lions shall they guard us when we please;
Like Almain rutters with their horsemen's staves,
Or Lapland giants, trotting by our sides;
Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids,
Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
Than have<19> the white breasts of the queen of love:
>From Venice shall they<20> drag huge<21> argosies,
And from America the golden fleece
That yearly stuffs<22> old Philip's treasury;
If learned Faustus will be resolute.
A Catholic term
FAUSTUS. Valdes, as resolute am I in this
As thou to live: therefore object it not.
CORNELIUS. The miracles that magic will perform
Will make thee vow to study nothing else.
He that is grounded in astrology,
Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in minerals,
Hath all the principles magic doth require:
Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowm'd,<23>
And more frequented for this mystery
Than heretofore the Delphian oracle.
The spirits tell me they can dry the sea,
And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrecks,
Yea, all the wealth that our forefathers hid
Within the massy entrails of the earth:
Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want?
again
FAUSTUS. Nothing, Cornelius. O, this cheers my soul!
Come, shew me some demonstrations magical,
That I may conjure in some bushy grove,
And have these joys in full possession.
VALDES. Then haste thee to some solitary grove,
And bear wise Bacon's and Albertus'<24> works,
The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament;
And whatsoever else is requisite
We will inform thee ere our conference cease.
CORNELIUS. Valdes, first let him know the words of art;
And then, all other ceremonies learn'd,
Faustus may try his cunning by himself.
VALDES. First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments,
And then wilt thou be perfecter than I.
FAUSTUS. Then come and dine with me, and, after meat,
We'll canvass every quiddity thereof;
For, ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do:
This night I'll conjure, though I die therefore.
[Exeunt.]
Enter two SCHOLARS.
FIRST SCHOLAR. I wonder what's become of Faustus, that was wont
to make our schools ring with sic probo.
SECOND SCHOLAR. That shall we presently know; here comes his boy.
Enter WAGNER.
Clown / jester / fool
FIRST SCHOLAR. How now, sirrah! where's thy master?
WAGNER. God in heaven knows.
SECOND SCHOLAR. Why, dost not thou know, then?
WAGNER. Yes, I know; but that follows not.
FIRST SCHOLAR. Go to, sirrah! leave your jesting, and tell us
where he is.
WAGNER. That follows not by force of argument, which you, being
licentiates, should stand upon: therefore acknowledge your
error, and be attentive.
SECOND SCHOLAR. Then you will not tell us?
WAGNER. You are deceived, for I will tell you: yet, if you were
not dunces, you would never ask me such a question; for is he not
corpus naturale? and is not that mobile? then wherefore should
you ask me such a question? But that I am by nature phlegmatic,
slow to wrath, and prone to lechery (to love, I would say), it
were not for you to come within forty foot of the place of
execution, although I do not doubt but to see you both hanged
the next sessions. Thus having triumphed over you, I will set
my countenance like a precisian, and begin to speak thus:-Truly, my dear brethren, my master is within at dinner, with
Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine, if it could speak, would
inform your worships: and so, the Lord bless you, preserve you,
and keep you, my dear brethren!
[Exit.]
FIRST SCHOLAR. O Faustus!
Then I fear that which I have long suspected,
That thou art fall'n into that<25> damned art
For which they two are infamous through the world.
2nd warning
SECOND SCHOLAR. Were he a stranger, not allied to me,
The danger of his soul would make me mourn.
But, come, let us go and inform the Rector:
It may be his grave counsel may reclaim him.<26>
FIRST SCHOLAR. I fear me nothing will reclaim him now.
SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet let us see what we can do.
[Exeunt.]
Enter FAUSTUS.<27>
The witchraft
FAUSTUS. Now that the gloomy shadow of the night,
Longing to view Orion's drizzling look,
Leaps from th' antartic world unto the sky,
And dims the welkin with her<28> pitchy breath,
Faustus, begin thine incantations,
And try if devils will obey thy hest,
Seeing thou hast pray'd and sacrific'd to them.
Within this circle is Jehovah's name,
Forward and backward anagrammatiz'd,
Th' abbreviated names of holy saints,
Figures of every adjunct to the heavens,
And characters of signs and erring<29> stars,
By which the spirits are enforc'd to rise:
Then fear not, Faustus, to be resolute,
And try the utmost magic can perform.
[Thunder.]
Sint mihi dii Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovoe!
Ignei, aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientis princeps
Belzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demogorgon, propitiamus
vos, ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis Dragon, quod tumeraris:<30>
per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo,
signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc
surgat nobis dicatus<31> Mephistophilis!
Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.
I charge thee to return, and change thy shape;
Thou art too ugly to attend on me:
Go, and return an old Franciscan friar;
That holy shape becomes a devil best.
[Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.]
I see there's virtue in my heavenly words.
Who would not be proficient in this art?
How pliant is this Mephistophilis,
Full of obedience and humility!
Such is the force of magic and my spells.
Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS like a Franciscan friar.
MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do?
FAUSTUS. I charge thee wait upon me whilst I live,
To do whatever Faustus shall command,
Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere,
Or the ocean to overwhelm the world.
MEPHIST. I am a servant to great Lucifer,
And may not follow thee without his leave:
No more than he commands must we perform.
FAUSTUS. Did not he charge thee to appear to me?
MEPHIST. No, I came hither<32> of mine own accord.
FAUSTUS. Did not my conjuring speeches<33> raise thee? speak!
MEPHIST. That was the cause, but yet per accidens;<34>
For, when we hear one rack the name of God,
Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ,
We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul;
Nor will we come, unless he use such means
Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd.
Therefore the shortest cut for conjuring
Is stoutly to abjure all godliness,
A mistake, pride
And pray devoutly to the prince of hell.
FAUSTUS. So Faustus hath
Already done; and holds this principle,
There is no chief but only Belzebub;
To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.
This word "damnation" terrifies not me,
For I confound hell in Elysium:
My ghost be with the old philosophers!
But, leaving these vain trifles of men's souls,
Tell me what is that Lucifer thy lord?
MEPHIST. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.
interrogation
But we learn no more about L. than
Conventional wisdom has taught us
FAUSTUS. Was not that Lucifer an angel once?
MEPHIST. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God.
FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils?
MEPHIST. O, by aspiring pride and insolence;
For which God threw him from the face of heaven.
FAUSTUS. And what are you that live with Lucifer?
MEPHIST. Unhappy spirits that fell<35> with Lucifer,
Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer,
And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer.
FAUSTUS. Where are you damn'd?
MEPHIST. In hell.
FAUSTUS. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell?
Even the devil longs to see the face of God
MEPHIST. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it:
Think'st thou that I, that saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells,
In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss?
O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,
Which strike<36> a terror to my fainting soul!
FAUSTUS. What, is great Mephistophilis so passionate
For being deprived of the joys of heaven?
Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude,
And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.
Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer:
Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death
By desperate thoughts against Jove's deity,
Say, he surrenders up to him his soul,
So he will spare him four and twenty years,
Letting him live in all voluptuousness;
Having thee ever to attend on me,
To give me whatsoever I shall ask,
To tell me whatsoever I demand,
To slay mine enemies, and to aid my friends,
And always be obedient to my will.
Go, and return to mighty Lucifer,
And meet me in my study at midnight,
And then resolve me of thy master's mind.
MEPHIST. I will, Faustus.
[Exit.]
FAUSTUS. Had I as many souls as there be stars,
I'd give them all for Mephistophilis.
By him I'll be great emperor of the world,
And make a bridge thorough<37> the moving air,
To pass the ocean with a band of men;
I'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore,
And make that country continent to Spain,
And both contributary to my crown:
The Emperor shall not live but by my leave,
Nor any potentate of Germany.
Now that I have obtain'd what I desir'd,
I'll live in speculation of this art,
Till Mephistophilis return again.
[Exit.]
Enter WAGNER and CLOWN.
WAGNER. Come hither, sirrah boy.
Comic interlude
Parallel with Faustus
CLOWN. Boy! O, disgrace to my person! zounds, boy in your face!
You have seen many boys with beards, I am sure.
WAGNER. Sirrah,<38> hast thou no comings in?
CLOWN. Yes, and goings out too, you may see, sir.
WAGNER. Alas, poor slave! see how poverty jests in his nakedness!
I know the villain's out of service, and so hungry, that I know
he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton,
though it were blood-raw.
CLOWN. Not so neither: I had need to have it well roasted, and
good sauce to it, if I pay so dear, I can tell you.
WAGNER. Sirrah, wilt thou be my man, and wait on me, and I will
make thee go like Qui mihi discipulus?
CLOWN. What, in verse?
WAGNER. No, slave; in beaten silk and staves-acre.
CLOWN. Staves-acre! that's good to kill vermin: then, belike,
if I serve you, I shall be lousy.
WAGNER. Why, so thou shalt be, whether thou dost it or no; for,
sirrah, if thou dost not presently bind thyself to me for seven
years, I'll turn all the lice about thee into familiars, and make
them tear thee in pieces.
CLOWN. Nay, sir, you may save<39> yourself a labour, for they
are as familiar with me as if they paid for their meat and drink,
I can tell you.
WAGNER. Well, sirrah, leave your jesting, and take these guilders.
[Gives money.]
CLOWN. Yes, marry, sir; and I thank you too.
WAGNER. So, now thou art to be at an hour's warning, whensoever
and wheresoever the devil shall fetch thee.
CLOWN. Here, take your guilders again;<40> I'll none of 'em.
WAGNER. Not I; thou art pressed: prepare thyself, or<41> I will
presently raise up two devils to carry thee away.--Banio! Belcher!
CLOWN. Belcher! an Belcher come here, I'll belch him: I am not
afraid of a devil.
Enter two DEVILS.
WAGNER. How now, sir! will you serve me now?
CLOWN. Ay, good Wagner; take away the devil[s], then.
WAGNER. Spirits, away!
[Exeunt DEVILS.]
Now, sirrah, follow me.
CLOWN. I will, sir: but hark you, master; will you teach me this
conjuring occupation?
WAGNER. Ay, sirrah, I'll teach thee to turn thyself to a dog,
or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or any thing.
CLOWN. A dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat!
O, brave, Wagner!
WAGNER. Villain, call me Master Wagner, and see that you walk
attentively, and let your right eye be always diametrally fixed
upon my left heel, that thou mayst quasi vestigiis nostris<42>
insistere.
CLOWN. Well, sir, I warrant you.
[Exeunt.]
FAUSTUS discovered in his study.
FAUSTUS. Now, Faustus,
Must thou needs be damn'd, canst thou not be sav'd.
What boots it, then, to think on God or heaven?
Away with such vain fancies, and despair;
Despair in God, and trust in Belzebub:
Now, go not backward,<43> Faustus; be resolute:
Why<44> waver'st thou? O, something soundeth in mine ear,
"Abjure this magic, turn to God again!"
Why, he loves thee not;
The god thou serv'st is thine own appetite,
Wherein is fix'd the love of Belzebub:
To him I'll build an altar and a church,
And offer lukewarm blood of new-born babes.
Elizabethan stagecraft
1st bout of bad consience
psychomachia
2nd act of ignorance
Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.
EVIL ANGEL. Go forward, Faustus, in that famous<45> art.
2nd warning
Personification of inner conflict
GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, leave that execrable art.
FAUSTUS. Contrition, prayer, repentance--what of<46> these?
GOOD ANGEL. O, they are means to bring thee unto heaven!
Catholic theology, means of redemption,
still not late!
EVIL ANGEL. Rather illusions, fruits of lunacy,
That make men<47> foolish that do use them most.
GOOD ANGEL. Sweet Faustus, think of heaven and heavenly things.
EVIL ANGEL. No, Faustus; think of honour and of wealth.
[Exeunt ANGELS.]
FAUSTUS. Wealth!
Why, the signiory of Embden shall be mine.
When Mephistophilis shall stand by me,
What power can hurt me? Faustus, thou art safe:
Cast no more doubts.--Mephistophilis, come,
And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-Is't not midnight?--come Mephistophilis,
And bring glad tidings from great Lucifer;-Is't not midnight?--come Mephistophilis,
Veni, veni, Mephistophile!<48>
Faustus’s decision
Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.
Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord?
MEPHIST. That I shall wait on Faustus whilst he lives,
So he will buy my service with his soul.
FAUSTUS. Already Faustus hath hazarded that for thee.
MEPHIST. But now thou must bequeath it solemnly,
And write a deed of gift with thine own blood;
For that security craves Lucifer.
If thou deny it, I must back to hell.
FAUSTUS. Stay, Mephistophilis, and tell me, what good will my
soul do thy lord?
MEPHIST. Enlarge his kingdom.
FAUSTUS. Is that the reason why he tempts us thus?
MEPHIST. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.
FAUSTUS. Why, have you any pain that torture others?
MEPHIST. As great as have the human souls of men.
But, tell me, Faustus, shall I have thy soul?
And I will be thy slave, and wait on thee,
And give thee more than thou hast wit to ask.
FAUSTUS. Ay, Mephistophilis, I'll give it thee.<49>
MEPHIST. Then, Faustus, stab thine<50> arm courageously,
contract with the devil in blood
And bind thy soul, that at some certain day
Great Lucifer may claim it as his own;
And<51> then be thou as great as Lucifer.
FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee,
Faustus hath cut his arm, and with his proper blood
Assures his soul to be great Lucifer's,
Chief lord and regent of perpetual night!
View here this blood that trickles from mine arm,
And let it be propitious for my<52> wish.
MEPHIST. But, Faustus,
Write it in manner of a deed of gift.
FAUSTUS. [Writing] Ay, so I do. But, Mephistophilis,
My blood congeals, and I can write no more.
his blood congeals
Even his body refuses to submit
MEPHIST. I'll fetch thee fire to dissolve it straight.
[Exit.]
FAUSTUS. What might the staying of my blood portend?
Is it<53> unwilling I should write this bill?
2nd bout of doubt
Why streams it not, that I may write afresh?
FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL: O, there it stay'd!
Why shouldst thou not? is not thy soul thine own?
Then write again, FAUSTUS GIVES TO THEE HIS SOUL.<54>
Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with the chafer of fire.
MEPHIST. See, Faustus, here is fire; set it on.
FAUSTUS. So, now the blood begins to clear again;
Now will I make an<55> end immediately.
[Writes.]
His doubts are cleared
MEPHIST. What will not I do to obtain his soul?
[Aside.]
FAUSTUS. Consummatum est; this bill is ended,
And Faustus hath bequeath'd his soul to Lucifer.
But what is this inscription on mine arm?
Homo, fuge: whither should<56> I fly?
If unto God,<57> he'll throw me down to hell.
My senses are deceiv'd; here's nothing writ:-O, yes, I see it plain; even here is writ,
Homo, fuge: yet shall not Faustus fly.
2nd act of blasphemy
3rd warning
3rd act of ignorance
MEPHIST. I'll fetch him somewhat to delight his mind.
[Aside, and then exit.]
Enter DEVILS, giving crowns and rich apparel to FAUSTUS.
They dance, and then depart.
Medieval pageants
Comic relief
Re-enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS. What means this show? speak, Mephistophilis.
MEPHIST. Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind,
And let thee see what magic can perform.
FAUSTUS. But may I raise such spirits when I please?
MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, and do greater things than these.
FAUSTUS. Then, Mephistophilis, receive this scroll,<58>
A deed of gift of body and of soul:
But yet conditionally that thou perform
All covenants and articles between us both!
MEPHIST. Faustus, I swear by hell and Lucifer
To effect all promises between us both!
FAUSTUS. Then hear me read it, Mephistophilis.
[Reads.]
words of the
contract
ON THESE CONDITIONS FOLLOWING. FIRST, THAT FAUSTUS MAY BE A
SPIRIT IN FORM AND SUBSTANCE. SECONDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHILIS
SHALL BE HIS SERVANT, AND BE BY HIM COMMANDED. THIRDLY, THAT
MEPHISTOPHILIS SHALL DO FOR HIM, AND BRING HIM WHATSOEVER HE
DESIRES.<59> FOURTHLY, THAT HE SHALL BE IN HIS CHAMBER OR HOUSE
INVISIBLE. LASTLY, THAT HE SHALL APPEAR TO THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS,
AT ALL TIMES, IN WHAT SHAPE AND FORM SOEVER HE PLEASE. I, JOHN
FAUSTUS, OF WITTENBERG, DOCTOR, BY THESE PRESENTS, DO GIVE BOTH
BODY AND SOUL TO LUCIFER PRINCE OF THE EAST, AND HIS MINISTER
MEPHISTOPHILIS; AND FURTHERMORE GRANT UNTO THEM, THAT, FOUR-ANDTWENTY YEARS BEING EXPIRED, AND THESE ARTICLES ABOVE-WRITTEN
BEING INVIOLATE, FULL POWER TO FETCH OR CARRY THE SAID JOHN FAUSTUS,
BODY AND SOUL, FLESH AND<60> BLOOD, INTO THEIR HABITATION WHERESOEVER.
BY ME, JOHN FAUSTUS.
MEPHIST. Speak, Faustus, do you deliver this as your deed?
FAUSTUS. Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good of it!
MEPHIST. So, now, Faustus, ask me what thou wilt.
curiosity
FAUSTUS. First I will question with<61> thee about hell.
Tell me, where is the<62> place that men call hell?
M. makes a fool of F., his curiosity is not
MEPHIST. Under the heavens.
satisfied
FAUSTUS. Ay, so are all things else; but whereabouts?
MEPHIST. Within the bowels of these elements,
Where we are tortur'd and remain for ever:
Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd
In one self-place; but where we are is hell,
And where hell is, there must we ever be:
And, to be short, when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All places shall be hell that are<63> not heaven.
FAUSTUS. I think hell's a fable.<64>
MEPHIST. Ay, think so still, till experience change thy mind.
FAUSTUS. Why, dost thou think that Faustus shall be damn'd?
MEPHIST. Ay, of necessity, for here's the scroll
In which thou hast given thy soul to Lucifer.
FAUSTUS. Ay, and body too; and what of that?
Think'st thou that Faustus is so fond to imagine
That, after this life, there is any pain?
No, these are trifles and mere old wives' tales.
MEPHIST. But I am an instance to prove the contrary,
For I tell thee I am damn'd and now in hell.
FAUSTUS. Nay, an this be hell, I'll willingly be damn'd:
What! sleeping, eating, walking, and disputing!
But, leaving this, let me have a wife,
The fairest maid in Germany;
For I am wanton and lascivious,
And cannot live without a wife.
MEPHIST. Well, Faustus, thou shalt have a wife.
[MEPHISTOPHILIS fetches in a WOMAN-DEVIL.]
FAUSTUS. What sight is this?
MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, wilt thou have a wife?
FAUSTUS. Here's a hot whore, indeed: no, I'll no wife.
MEPHIST. Marriage is but a ceremonial toy,
And, if thou lov'st me, think no more of it.
I'll cull thee out the fairest courtezans,
And bring them every morning to thy bed:
She whom thine<65> eye shall like, thy<66> heart shall have,
Were she as chaste as was<67> Penelope,
As wise as Saba, or as beautiful
As was bright Lucifer before his fall.
Here, take this book, peruse it well:
The iterating of these lines brings gold;
The framing of this circle on the ground
Brings thunder, whirlwinds, storm, and lightning;
Pronounce this thrice devoutly to thyself,
And men in harness<68> shall appear to thee,
Ready to execute what thou command'st.
FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis, for this sweet book:
This will I keep as chary as my life.
[Exeunt.]
Enter FAUSTUS, in his study, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS. When I behold the heavens,<69> then I repent,
And curse thee, wicked Mephistophilis,
Because thou hast depriv'd me of those joys.
Sense of guilt
MEPHIST. 'Twas thine<70> own seeking, Faustus; thank thyself.
But, think'st thou heaven is<71> such a glorious thing?
I tell thee, Faustus, it is not half so fair
As thou, or any man that breathes<72> on earth.
FAUSTUS. How prov'st thou that?
MEPHIST. 'Twas made for man; then he's more excellent.
FAUSTUS. If heaven was made for man, 'twas made for me:
I will renounce this magic and repent.
Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.
warning
GOOD ANGEL. Faustus, repent; yet God will pity thee.
EVIL ANGEL. Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee.
FAUSTUS. Who buzzeth in mine ears<73> I am a spirit?
Be I a devil, yet God may pity me;
Yea, God will pity me, if I repent.
he tries to show repentance
EVIL ANGEL. Ay, but Faustus never shall repent.
[Exeunt ANGELS.]
FAUSTUS. My heart is harden'd, I cannot repent;
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven:
Swords, poisons, halters, and envenom'd steel
Are laid before me to despatch myself;
And long ere this I<74> should have done the deed,
Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair.
Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander's love and Oenon's death?
And hath not he, that built the walls of Thebes
With ravishing sound of his melodious harp,
Made music with my Mephistophilis?
Why should I die, then, or basely despair?
I am resolv'd; Faustus shall not repent.-Come, Mephistophilis, let us dispute again,
And reason of divine astrology.
Speak, are there many spheres above the moon?
Are all celestial bodies but one globe,
As is the substance of this centric earth?
but he changes his mind
he seeks knowledge again
MEPHIST. As are the elements, such are the heavens,
Even from the moon unto th' empyreal orb,
Mutually folded in each other's spheres,
And jointly move upon one axletree,
Whose termine<75> is term'd the world's wide pole;
Nor are the names of Saturn, Mars, or Jupiter
Feign'd, but are erring<76> stars.
FAUSTUS. But have they all one motion, both situ et tempore?
MEPHIST. All move from east to west in four-and-twenty
hours upon the poles of the world; but differ in their motions
upon the poles of the zodiac.
FAUSTUS. These slender questions Wagner can decide:
Hath Mephistophilis no greater skill?
Who knows not the double motion<77> of the planets?
That the first is finish'd in a natural day;
The second thus; Saturn in thirty years; Jupiter in twelve;
Mars in four; the Sun, Venus, and Mercury in a year; the Moon
in twenty-eight days. These are freshmen's questions. But
tell me, hath every sphere a dominion or intelligentia?
MEPHIST. Ay.
but M. fools him again
FAUSTUS. How many heavens or spheres are there?
MEPHIST. Nine; the seven planets, the firmament, and the empyreal
heaven.
FAUSTUS. But is there not coelum igneum et crystallinum?
MEPHIST. No, Faustus, they be but fables.
FAUSTUS. Resolve me, then, in this one question; why are not
conjunctions, oppositions, aspects, eclipses, all at one time,
but in some years we have more, in some less?
MEPHIST. Per inoequalem motum respectu totius.
FAUSTUS. Well, I am answered. Now tell me who made the world?
MEPHIST. I will not.
FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, tell me.
MEPHIST. Move me not, Faustus.
FAUSTUS. Villain, have I not bound thee to tell me any thing?
MEPHIST. Ay,<78> that is not against our kingdom; this is.
Thou art damned; think thou of hell.
FAUSTUS. Think, Faustus, upon God that made the world.
MEPHIST. Remember this.
[Exit.]
FAUSTUS. Ay, go, accursed spirit, to ugly hell!
'Tis thou hast damn'd distressed Faustus' soul.
Is't not too late?
Again comes close to repentance
Re-enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.
Warning: representations of inner
conflict
EVIL ANGEL. Too late.
GOOD ANGEL. Never too late, if Faustus will repent.
EVIL ANGEL. If thou repent, devils will tear thee in pieces.
GOOD ANGEL. Repent, and they shall never raze thy skin.
[Exeunt ANGELS.]
FAUSTUS. O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour
come
Help to save distressed Faustus' soul!
Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.
LUCIFER. Christ cannot save thy soul, for he is just:
There's none but I have interest in the same.
FAUSTUS. O, what art thou that look'st so terribly?
he nearly repents so L. himself has to
And remind him of his contract
LUCIFER. I am Lucifer,
And this is my companion-prince in hell.
FAUSTUS. O Faustus, they are come to fetch thy soul!
BELZEBUB. We are come to tell thee thou dost injure us.
LUCIFER. Thou call'st of Christ, contrary to thy promise.
BELZEBUB. Thou shouldst not think on God.
LUCIFER. Think of the devil.
BELZEBUB. And his dam too.
FAUSTUS. Nor will Faustus henceforth: pardon him for this,
And Faustus vows never to look to heaven.
so he changes his mind again
LUCIFER. So shalt thou shew thyself an obedient servant,
And we will highly gratify thee for it.
BELZEBUB. Faustus, we are come from hell in person to shew thee
some pastime: sit down, and thou shalt behold the Seven Deadly
Sins appear to thee in their own proper shapes and likeness.
FAUSTUS. That sight will be as pleasant unto me,
As Paradise was to Adam the first day
Of his creation.
LUCIFER. Talk not of Paradise or creation; but mark the show.-Go, Mephistophilis, and<79> fetch them in.
MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in the SEVEN DEADLY SINS.
BELZEBUB. Now, Faustus, question them of their names and
dispositions.
Catholic ideology
convention of morality plays
FAUSTUS. That shall I soon.--What art thou, the<80> first?
PRIDE. I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to
Ovid's flea; I can creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes,
like a perriwig, I sit upon her brow; next, like a necklace, I hang
about her neck; then, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips;<81>
and then, turning myself to a wrought smock, do what I list.
But, fie, what a smell is here! I'll not speak a word more for
a king's ransom, unless the ground be perfumed, and covered with
cloth of arras.
büszkeség
FAUSTUS. Thou art a proud knave, indeed.--What art thou, the second?
COVETOUSNESS. I am Covetousness, begotten of an old churl, in a mohóság
leather bag: and, might I now obtain my wish, this house, you,
and all, should turn to gold, that I might lock you safe into
my chest: O my sweet gold!
FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the third?
ENVY. I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife.
I cannot read, and therefore wish all books burned. I am lean
Irigység
with seeing others eat. O, that there would come a famine over
all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! then thou
shouldst see how fat I'd be. But must thou sit, and I stand?
come down, with a vengeance!
FAUSTUS. Out, envious wretch!--But what art thou, the fourth?
WRATH. I am Wrath. I had neither father nor mother: I leapt
out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce an hour old; and ever
since have run<82> up and down the world with this<83> case of
rapiers, wounding myself when I could get none to fight withal.
I was born in hell; and look to it, for some of you shall be my
father.
harag
FAUSTUS. And what art thou, the fifth?
GLUTTONY. I am Gluttony. My parents are all dead, and the devil torkosság
a penny they have left me, but a small pension, and that buys me
thirty meals a-day and ten bevers,--a small trifle to suffice
nature. I come<84> of a royal pedigree: my father was a Gammon
of Bacon, my mother was a Hogshead of Claret-wine; my godfathers
were these, Peter Pickled-herring and Martin Martlemas-beef; but
my godmother, O, she was an ancient gentlewoman; her name was
Margery March-beer. Now, Faustus, thou hast heard all my progeny;
wilt thou bid me to supper?
FAUSTUS. Not I.
GLUTTONY. Then the devil choke thee!
FAUSTUS. Choke thyself, glutton!--What art thou, the sixth?
SLOTH. Heigho! I am Sloth. I was begotten on a sunny bank.
Heigho! I'll not speak a word more for a king's ransom.
restség
FAUSTUS. And what are you, Mistress Minx, the seventh and last?
LECHERY. Who, I,<85> sir? I am one that loves an inch of raw bujaság
mutton better than an ell of fried stock-fish; and the first
letter of my name begins with L.<86>
LUCIFER. Away to hell, away! On, piper!
[Exeunt the SINS.]
FAUSTUS. O, how this sight doth delight my soul!
Superhuman ambition – rather petty joy
LUCIFER. Tut,<87> Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight.
FAUSTUS. O, might I see hell, and return again safe,
How happy were I then!
LUCIFER. Faustus, thou shalt; at midnight I will send for thee.
Meanwhile peruse this book and view it throughly,
And thou shalt turn thyself into what shape thou wilt.
FAUSTUS. Thanks, mighty Lucifer!
This will I keep as chary as my life.
LUCIFER. Now, Faustus, farewell.
FAUSTUS. Farewell, great Lucifer.
[Exeunt LUCIFER and BELZEBUB.]
Come, Mephistophilis.
[Exeunt.]
Enter ROBIN,<88> with a book.
Comic interlude
ROBIN. What, Dick! look to the horses there, till I come again.
I have gotten one of Doctor Faustus' conjuring-books; and now
we'll have such knavery as't passes.
Enter DICK.
DICK. What, Robin! you must come away and walk the horses.
ROBIN. I walk the horses! I scorn't, faith:<89> I have other
matters in hand: let the horses walk themselves, an they will.-[Reads.]
A per se, a; t, h, e, the; o per se, o; Demy orgon gorgon.-Keep further from me, O thou illiterate and unlearned hostler!
DICK. 'Snails, what hast thou got there? a book! why, thou canst
not tell<90> ne'er a word on't.
ROBIN. That thou shalt see presently: keep out of the circle,
I say, lest I send you into the ostry with a vengeance.
DICK. That's like, faith! you had best leave your foolery; for,
an my master come, he'll conjure you, faith.
ROBIN. My master conjure me! I'll tell thee what; an my master
come here, I'll clap as fair a<91> pair of horns on's head as
e'er thou sawest in thy life.
DICK. Thou need'st<92> not do that, for my mistress hath done it.
ROBIN. Ay, there be of us here that have waded as deep into
matters as other men, if they were disposed to talk.
DICK. A plague take you! I thought you did not sneak up and down
after her for nothing. But, I prithee, tell me in good sadness,
Robin, is that a conjuring-book?
ROBIN. Do but speak what thou'lt have me to do, and I'll do't:
if thou'lt dance naked, put off thy clothes, and I'll conjure
thee about presently; or, if thou'lt go but to the tavern with
me, I'll give thee white wine, red wine, claret-wine, sack,
muscadine, malmsey, and whippincrust, hold, belly, hold;<93> and
we'll not pay one penny for it.
DICK. 0, brave! Prithee,<94> let's to it presently, for I am as
dry as a dog.
ROBIN. Come, then, let's away.
[Exeunt.]
Enter CHORUS.
narrator
CHORUS. Learned Faustus,
To find the secrets of astronomy
Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament,
Did mount him<95> up to scale Olympus' top;
Where, sitting in a chariot burning bright,
Drawn by the strength of yoked dragons' necks,
He views<96> the clouds, the planets, and the stars,
The tropic zones, and quarters of the sky,
>From the bright circle of the horned moon
Even to the height of Primum Mobile;
And, whirling round with this<97> circumference,
Within the concave compass of the pole,
>From east to west his dragons swiftly glide,
And in eight days did bring him home again.
Not long he stay'd within his quiet house,
To rest his bones after his weary toil;
But new exploits do hale him out again:
And, mounted then upon a dragon's back,
That with his wings did part the subtle air,
He now is gone to prove cosmography,
That measures coasts and kingdoms of the earth;
And, as I guess, will first arrive at Rome,
To see the Pope and manner of his court,
And take some part of holy Peter's feast,
The which this day is highly solemniz'd.
[Exit.]
Enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS. Having now, my good Mephistophilis,
Pass'd with delight the stately town of Trier,
Environ'd round<98> with airy mountain-tops,
With walls of flint, and deep-entrenched lakes,
Not to be won by any conquering prince;
>From Paris next, coasting the realm of France,
We saw the river Maine fall into Rhine,<99>
Whose banks are set with groves of fruitful vines;
Then up to<100> Naples, rich Campania,
Whose buildings fair and gorgeous to the eye,
The streets straight forth, and pav'd with finest brick,
Quarter the town in four equivalents:<101>
There saw we learned Maro's golden tomb;
The way he cut, an English mile in length,
Thorough<102> a rock of stone, in one night's space;
>From thence to Venice, Padua, and the rest,<103>
In one of which a sumptuous temple stands,
That threats the stars with her aspiring top,
Whose frame is pav'd with sundry-colour'd stones,
And roof'd aloft with curious work in gold.
Thus hitherto hath Faustus spent his time:
But tell me<104> now, what resting-place is this?
Hast thou, as erst I did command,
Conducted me within the walls of Rome?
MEPHIST. I have, my Faustus; and, for proof thereof,
This is the goodly palace of the Pope;
And, 'cause we are no common guests,
I choose his privy-chamber for our use.
FAUSTUS. I hope his Holiness will bid us<105> welcome.
MEPHIST. All's one, for we'll be bold with his venison.
But now, my Faustus, that thou mayst perceive
What Rome contains for to delight thine eyes,
Know that this city stands upon seven hills
That underprop the groundwork of the same:
Just through<106> the midst runs flowing Tiber's stream,
With winding banks that cut it in two parts;
Over the which two stately bridges lean,
That make safe passage to each part of Rome:
Upon the bridge call'd Ponte<107> Angelo
Erected is a castle passing strong,
Where thou shalt see such store of ordnance,
As that the double cannons, forg'd of brass,
Do match<108> the number of the days contain'd
Within the compass of one complete year;
Beside the gates, and high pyramides,
That Julius Caesar brought from Africa.
FAUSTUS. Now, by the kingdoms of infernal rule,
Of Styx, of Acheron, and the fiery lake
Of ever-burning Phlegethon, I swear
That I do long to see the<109> monuments
And situation of bright-splendent Rome:
Come, therefore, let's away.
MEPHIST. Nay, stay, my Faustus: I know you'd see the Pope,
And take some part of holy Peter's feast,
The which, in state and<110> high solemnity,
This day, is held through Rome and Italy,
In honour of the Pope's triumphant victory.
FAUSTUS. Sweet Mephistophilis, thou pleasest me.
Whilst I am here on earth, let me be cloy'd
With all things that delight the heart of man:
My four-and-twenty years of liberty
I'll spend in pleasure and in dalliance,
That Faustus' name, whilst<111> this bright frame doth stand,
May be admir'd thorough<112> the furthest land.
MEPHIST. 'Tis well said, Faustus. Come, then, stand by me,
And thou shalt see them come immediately.
FAUSTUS. Nay, stay, my gentle Mephistophilis,
And grant me my<113> request, and then I go.
Thou know'st, within the compass of eight days
We view'd the face of heaven, of earth, and hell;
So high our dragons soar'd into the air,
That, looking down, the earth appear'd to me
No bigger than my hand in quantity;
There did we view the kingdoms of the world,
And what might please mine eye I there beheld.
Then in this show let me an actor be,
That this proud Pope may Faustus' cunning<114> see.
MEPHIST. Let it be so, my Faustus. But, first, stay,
And view their triumphs as they pass this way;
And then devise what best contents thy mind,
By cunning in thine art to cross the Pope,
Or dash the pride of this<115> solemnity;
To make his monks and abbots stand like apes,
And point like antics at<116> his triple crown;
To beat the beads about the friars' pates,
Or clap huge horns upon the Cardinals' heads;
Or any villany thou canst devise;
And I'll perform it,<117> Faustus. Hark! they come:
This day shall make thee be admir'd in Rome.
Enter the CARDINALS and BISHOPS, some bearing crosiers, some
the pillars; MONKS and FRIARS, singing their procession;
then the POPE, RAYMOND king of Hungary, the ARCHBISHOP
OF RHEIMS, BRUNO led in chains, and ATTENDANTS.
POPE. Cast down our footstool.
RAYMOND. Saxon Bruno, stoop,
Whilst on thy back his Holiness ascends
Saint Peter's chair and state pontifical.
BRUNO. Proud Lucifer, that state belongs to me;
But thus I fall to Peter, not to thee.
POPE. To me and Peter shalt thou grovelling lie,
And crouch before the Papal dignity.-Sound trumpets, then; for thus Saint Peter's heir,
>From Bruno's back, ascends Saint Peter's chair.
[A flourish while he ascends.]
Thus, as the gods creep on with feet of wool,
Long ere with iron hands they punish men,
So shall our sleeping vengeance now arise,
And smite with death thy hated enterprise.<118>-Lord Cardinals of France and Padua,
Go forthwith to our<119> holy consistory,
And read, amongst the statutes decretal,
What, by the holy council held at Trent,
The sacred synod hath decreed for him
That doth assume the Papal government
Without election and a true consent:
Away, and bring us word with speed.
CARDINAL OF FRANCE. We go, my lord.
[Exeunt CARDINALS of France and Padua.]
POPE. Lord Raymond.
[They converse in dumb show.]
FAUSTUS. Go, haste thee, gentle Mephistophilis,
Follow the cardinals to the consistory;
And, as they turn their superstitious books,
Strike them with sloth and drowsy idleness,
And make them sleep so sound, that in their shapes
Thyself and I may parley with this<120> Pope,
This proud confronter of the Emperor;
And, in despite of all his holiness,
Restore this Bruno to his liberty,
And bear him to the states of Germany.
MEPHIST. Faustus, I go.
FAUSTUS. Despatch it soon:
The Pope shall curse, that Faustus came to Rome.
[Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.]
BRUNO. Pope Adrian, let me have right<121> of law:
I was elected by the Emperor.
POPE. We will depose the Emperor for that deed,
And curse the people that submit to him:
Both he and thou shall<122> stand excommunicate,
And interdict from church's privilege
And all society of holy men.
He grows too proud in his authority,
Lifting his lofty head above the clouds,
And, like a steeple, overpeers the church:
But we'll pull down his haughty insolence;
And, as Pope Alexander, our progenitor,
Trod on the neck of German Frederick,
Adding this golden sentence to our praise,
"That Peter's heirs should tread on Emperors,
And walk upon the dreadful adder's back,
Treading the lion and the dragon down,
And fearless spurn the killing basilisk,"
So will we quell that haughty schismatic,
And, by authority apostolical,
Depose him from his regal government.
BRUNO. Pope Julius swore to princely Sigismond,
For him and the succeeding Popes of Rome,
To hold the Emperors their lawful lords.
POPE. Pope Julius did abuse the church's rights,
And therefore none of his decrees can stand.
Is not all power on earth bestow'd on us?
And therefore, though we would, we cannot err.
Behold this silver belt, whereto is fix'd
Seven golden seals, fast sealed with seven seals,
In token of our seven-fold power from heaven,
To bind or loose, lock fast, condemn or judge,
Resign or seal, or what so pleaseth us:
Then he and thou, and all the world, shall stoop,
Or be assured of our dreadful curse,
To light as heavy as the pains of hell.
Re-enter FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS, in the shapes of the
CARDINALS of France and Padua.
MEPHIST. Now tell me, Faustus, are we not fitted well?
FAUSTUS. Yes, Mephistophilis; and two such cardinals
Ne'er serv'd a holy Pope as we shall do.
But, whilst they sleep within the consistory,
Let us salute his reverend fatherhood.
RAYMOND. Behold, my lord, the Cardinals are return'd.
POPE. Welcome, grave fathers: answer presently
What hath<123> our holy council there decreed
Concerning Bruno and the Emperor,
In quittance of their late conspiracy
Against our state and papal dignity?
FAUSTUS. Most sacred patron of the church of Rome,
By full consent of all the synod<124>
Of priests and prelates, it is thus decreed,-That Bruno and the German Emperor
Be held as Lollards and bold schismatics,
And proud disturbers of the church's peace;
And if that Bruno, by his own assent,
Without enforcement of the German peers,
Did seek to wear the triple diadem,
And by your death to climb Saint Peter's chair,
The statutes decretal have thus decreed,-He shall be straight condemn'd of heresy,
And on a pile of faggots burnt to death.
POPE. It is enough. Here, take him to your charge,
And bear him straight to Ponte<125> Angelo,
And in the strongest tower enclose him fast.
To-morrow, sitting in our consistory,
With all our college of grave cardinals,
We will determine of his life or death.
Here, take his<126> triple crown along with you,
And leave it in the church's treasury.
Make haste again, my good Lord Cardinals,
And take our blessing apostolical.
MEPHIST. So, so; was never devil thus bless'd before.
FAUSTUS. Away, sweet Mephistophilis, be gone;
The Cardinals will be plagu'd for this anon.
[Exeunt FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS with BRUNO.]
playing petty jokes
POPE. Go presently and bring a banquet forth,
That we may solemnize Saint Peter's feast,
And with Lord Raymond, King of Hungary,
Drink to our late and happy victory.
A Sennet<127> while the banquet is brought in; and then enter
FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS in their own shapes.
MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, come, prepare thyself for mirth:
The sleepy Cardinals are hard at hand,
To censure Bruno, that is posted hence,
And on a proud-pac'd steed, as swift as thought,
Flies o'er the Alps to fruitful Germany,
There to salute the woful Emperor.
FAUSTUS. The Pope will curse them for their sloth to-day,
That slept both Bruno and his crown away.
But now, that Faustus may delight his mind,
And by their folly make some merriment,
Sweet Mephistophilis, so charm me here,
That I may walk invisible to all,
And do whate'er I please, unseen of any.
MEPHIST. Faustus, thou shalt: then kneel down presently,
Whilst on thy head I lay my hand,
And charm thee with this magic wand.
First, wear this girdle; then appear
Invisible to all are here:
The planets seven, the gloomy air,
Hell, and the Furies' forked hair,
Pluto's blue fire, and Hecat's tree,
With magic spells so compass thee,
That no eye may thy body see!
So, Faustus, now, for all their holiness,
Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not be discern'd.
FAUSTUS. Thanks, Mephistophilis.--Now, friars, take heed,
Lest Faustus make your shaven crowns to bleed.
MEPHIST. Faustus, no more: see, where the Cardinals come!
Re-enter the CARDINALS of France and Padua with a book.
POPE. Welcome, Lord Cardinals; come, sit down.-Lord Raymond, take your seat.--Friars, attend,
And see that all things be<128> in readiness,
As best beseems this solemn festival.
CARDINAL OF FRANCE. First, may it please your sacred Holiness
To view the sentence of the reverend synod
Concerning Bruno and the Emperor?
POPE. What needs this question? did I not tell you,
To-morrow we would sit i' the consistory,
And there determine of his punishment?
You brought us word even now, it was decreed
That Bruno and the cursed Emperor
Were by the holy council both condemn'd
For loathed Lollards and base schismatics:
Then wherefore would you have me view that book?
CARDINAL OF FRANCE. Your grace mistakes; you gave us no such charge.
RAYMOND. Deny it not; we all are witnesses
That Bruno here was late deliver'd you,
With his rich triple crown to be reserv'd
And put into the church's treasury.
BOTH CARDINALS. By holy Paul, we saw them not!
POPE. By Peter, you shall die,
Unless you bring them forth immediately!-Hale them to<129> prison, lade their limbs with gyves.-False prelates, for this hateful treachery
Curs'd be your souls to hellish misery!
[Exeunt ATTENDANTS with the two CARDINALS.]
FAUSTUS. So, they are safe. Now, Faustus, to the feast:
The Pope had never such a frolic guest.
POPE. Lord Archbishop of Rheims, sit down with us.
ARCHBISHOP.<130> I thank your Holiness.
FAUSTUS. Fall to; the devil choke you,<131> an you spare!
POPE. Who is that spoke?--Friars, look about.-Lord Raymond, pray, fall to. I am beholding<132>
To the Bishop of Milan for this so rare a present.
FAUSTUS. I thank you, sir.
[Snatches the dish.]
POPE. How now! who snatch'd the meat from me?
Villains, why speak you not?-My good Lord Archbishop, here's a most dainty dish
Was sent me from a cardinal in France.
FAUSTUS. I'll have that too.
[Snatches the dish.]
POPE. What Lollards do attend our holiness,
That we receive such<133> great indignity?
Fetch me some wine.
FAUSTUS. Ay, pray, do, for Faustus is a-dry.
POPE. Lord Raymond,
I drink unto your grace.
FAUSTUS. I pledge your grace.
[Snatches the cup.]
POPE. My wine gone too!--Ye lubbers, look about,
And find the man that doth this villany,
Or, by our sanctitude, you all shall die!-I pray, my lords, have patience at this
Troublesome banquet.
ARCHBISHOP. Please it<134> your Holiness, I think it be some ghost
crept out of Purgatory, and now is come unto your Holiness for his
pardon.
POPE. It may be so.-Go, then, command our priests to sing a dirge,
To lay the fury of this same troublesome ghost.
[Exit an ATTENDANT.--The POPE crosses himself.]
FAUSTUS. How now! must every bit be spic'd with a cross?-Nay, then, take that.
[Strikes the POPE.]
POPE. O, I am slain!--Help me, my lords!
O, come and help to bear my body hence!-Damn'd be his<135> soul for ever for this deed!
[Exeunt all except FAUSTUS and MEPHISTOPHILIS.]
MEPHIST. Now, Faustus, what will you do now? for I can tell you
you'll be cursed with bell, book, and candle.
FAUSTUS. Bell, book, and candle,--candle, book, and bell,-Forward and backward, to curse Faustus to hell!
Re-enter the FRIARS, with bell, book, and candle, for the
Dirge.
FIRST FRIAR. Come, brethren, lets about our business with good
devotion.
[They sing.]
CURSED BE HE THAT STOLE HIS HOLINESS' MEAT FROM THE TABLE!
maledicat Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK<136> HIS HOLINESS A BLOW ON<137> THE
FACE! maledicat Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT STRUCK FRIAR SANDELO A BLOW ON THE PATE!
maledicat Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT DISTURBETH OUR HOLY DIRGE! maledicat
Dominus!
CURSED BE HE THAT TOOK AWAY HIS HOLINESS' WINE! maledicat
Dominus!
[MEPHISTOPHILIS and FAUSTUS beat the FRIARS, and fling
fire-works among them, and exeunt.]
petty jokes: enterntainment / F.’s pettines
Enter ROBIN and DICK with a cup.
Comic interlude
DICK. Sirrah Robin, we were best look that your devil can answer
the stealing of this same<138> cup, for the Vintner's boy follows
us at the hard heels.<139>
ROBIN. 'Tis no matter; let him come: an he follow us, I'll so
conjure him as he was never conjured in his life, I warrant him.
Let me see the cup.
DICK. Here 'tis.
[Gives the cup to ROBIN.]
Yonder he comes: now, Robin, now or never shew thy cunning.
Enter VINTNER.<140>
VINTNER. O, are you here? I am glad I have found you. You are
a couple of fine companions: pray, where's the cup you stole
from the tavern?
ROBIN. How, how! we steal a cup! take heed what you say: we look
not like cup-stealers, I can tell you.
VINTNER. Never deny't, for I know you have it; and I'll search you.
ROBIN. Search me! ay, and spare not.
--Hold the cup, Dick [Aside to DICK, giving him the cup].-Come, come, search me, search me.
[VINTNER searches him.]
VINTNER. Come on, sirrah, let me search you now.
DICK. Ay, ay, do, do.
--Hold the cup, Robin [Aside to ROBIN, giving him the cup].-I fear not your searching: we scorn to steal your<141> cups,
I can tell you.
[VINTNER searches him.]
VINTNER. Never out-face me for the matter; for, sure, the cup
is between you two.
ROBIN. Nay, there you lie; 'tis beyond us both.
VINTNER. A plague take you! I thought 'twas your knavery to take
it away: come, give it me again.
ROBIN. Ay, much!<142> when, can you tell?--Dick, make me a circle,
and stand close at my back, and stir not for thy life.--Vintner,
you shall have your cup anon.--Say nothing, Dick.--[Reads from
a book] O per se, O; Demogorgon; Belcher, and Mephistophilis!
Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS.
MEPHIST. You princely legions of infernal rule,
How am I vexed by these villains' charms!
>From Constantinople have they brought me now,
Only for pleasure of these damned slaves.
[Exit VINTNER.]
ROBIN. By lady,<143> sir, you have had a shrewd journey of it!
will it please you to<144> take a shoulder of mutton to supper,
and a tester<145> in your purse, and go back again?
DICK. Ay, I pray you heartily, sir; for we called you but in jest,
I promise you.
MEPHIST. To purge the rashness of this cursed deed,
First, be thou turned to this ugly shape,
For apish deeds transformed to an ape.
ROBIN. O, brave! an ape! I pray, sir, let me have the carrying
of him about, to shew some tricks.
MEPHIST. And so thou shalt: be thou transformed to a dog, and
carry him upon thy back. Away! be gone!
ROBIN. A dog! that's excellent: let the maids look well to their
porridge-pots, for I'll into the kitchen presently.--Come, Dick,
come.
[Exeunt ROBIN and DICK.]
MEPHIST. Now with the flames of ever-burning fire
I'll wing myself, and forthwith fly amain<sic>
Unto my Faustus, to the Great Turk's court.
[Exit.]
Enter MARTINO and FREDERICK at several doors.
MARTINO. What, ho, officers, gentlemen!
Hie to the presence to attend the Emperor.-Good Frederick, see the rooms be voided straight:
His majesty is coming to the hall;
Go back, and see the state<146> in readiness.
FREDERICK. But where is Bruno, our elected Pope,
That on a Fury's back came post from Rome?
Will not his grace consort the Emperor?
MARTINO. O, yes; and with him comes the German conjurer,
The learned Faustus, fame of Wittenberg,
The wonder of the world for magic art;
And he intends to shew great Carolus
The race of all his stout progenitors,
And bring in presence of his majesty
The royal shapes and perfect<147> semblances
Of Alexander and his beauteous paramour.
FREDERICK. Where is Benvolio?
MARTINO. Fast asleep, I warrant you;
He took his rouse<148> with stoops of Rhenish wine
So kindly yesternight to Bruno's health,
That all this day the sluggard keeps his bed.
FREDERICK. See, see, his window's ope! we'll call to him.
MARTINO. What, ho! Benvolio!
Enter BENVOLIO above, at a window, in his nightcap, buttoning.
BENVOLIO. What a devil ail you two?
MARTINO. Speak softly, sir, lest the devil hear you;
For Faustus at the court is late arriv'd,
And at his heels a<149> thousand Furies wait,
To accomplish whatsoe'er the doctor please.
BENVOLIO. What of this?
MARTINO. Come, leave thy chamber first, and thou shalt see
This conjurer perform such rare exploits,
Before the Pope and royal Emperor,
As never yet was seen in Germany.
BENVOLIO. Has not the Pope enough of conjuring yet?
He was upon the devil's back late enough:
An if he be so far in love with him,
I would he would post with him to Rome again!
FREDERICK. Speak, wilt thou come and see this sport?
BENVOLIO. Not I.
MARTINO. Wilt thou stand in thy window, and see it, then?
BENVOLIO. Ay, an I fall not asleep i' the mean time.
MARTINO. The Emperor is at hand, who comes to see
What wonders by black spells may compass'd be.
BENVOLIO. Well, go you attend the Emperor. I am content, for
this once, to thrust my head out at a<150> window; for they
say, if a man be drunk over night, the devil cannot hurt him
in the morning: if that be true, I have a charm in my head,
shall control him as well as the conjurer, I warrant you.
[Exeunt FREDERICK and MARTINO.]
A Sennet. Enter CHARLES the German Emperor, BRUNO,
DUKE OF SAXONY, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, FREDERICK,
MARTINO, and Attendants.
EMPEROR. Wonder of men, renowm'd<151> magician,
Thrice-learned Faustus, welcome to our court.
This deed of thine, in setting Bruno free
>From his and our professed enemy,
Shall add more excellence unto thine art
Than if by powerful necromantic spells
Thou couldst command the world's obedience:
For ever be belov'd of Carolus!
And if this Bruno, thou hast late redeem'd,
In peace possess the triple diadem,
And sit in Peter's chair, despite of chance,
Thou shalt be famous through<152> all Italy,
And honour'd of the German Emperor.
FAUSTUS. These<153> gracious words, most royal Carolus,
Shall make poor Faustus, to his utmost power,
Both love and serve the German Emperor,
And lay his life at holy Bruno's feet:
For proof whereof, if so your grace be pleas'd,
The doctor stands prepar'd by power of art
To cast his magic charms, that shall pierce through<154>
The ebon gates of ever-burning hell,
And hale the stubborn Furies from their caves,
To compass whatsoe'er your grace commands.
BENVOLIO. Blood, he speaks terribly! but, for all that, I do not
greatly believe him: he looks as like a<153> conjurer as the Pope
to a costermonger. [Aside.]
EMPEROR. Then, Faustus, as thou late didst promise us,
We would behold that famous conqueror,
Great Alexander, and his paramour,
In their true shapes and state majestical,
That we may wonder at their excellence.
FAUSTUS. Your majesty shall see them presently.-Mephistophilis, away,
And, with a solemn noise of trumpets' sound,
Present before this<156> royal Emperor
Great Alexander and his beauteous paramour.
MEPHIST. Faustus, I will.
[Exit.]
BENVOLIO. Well, Master Doctor, an your devils come not away
quickly, you shall have me asleep presently: zounds, I could
eat myself for anger, to think I have been such an ass all this
while, to stand gaping after the devil's governor, and can see
nothing!
FAUSTUS.
I'll make you feel something anon, if my art fail me not.-My lord, I must forewarn your majesty,
That, when my spirits present the royal shapes
Of Alexander and his paramour,
Your grace demand<157> no questions of the king,
But in dumb silence let them come and go.
EMPEROR. Be it as Faustus please; we are content.
BENVOLIO. Ay, ay, and I am content too: an thou bring Alexander
and his paramour before the Emperor, I'll be Actaeon, and turn
myself to a stag.
FAUSTUS. And I'll play Diana, and send you the horns presently.
Sennet. Enter, at one door,<158> the EMPEROR ALEXANDER, at
the other, DARIUS. They meet. DARIUS is thrown down;
ALEXANDER kills him, takes off his crown, and, offering to
go out, his PARAMOUR meets him. He embraceth her, and sets
DARIUS' crown upon her head; and, coming back, both salute
the EMPEROR, who, leaving his state,<159> offers to embrace
them; which FAUSTUS seeing, suddenly stays him. Then trumpets
cease, and music sounds.
My gracious lord, you do forget yourself;
These<160> are but shadows, not substantial.
EMPEROR. O, pardon me! my thoughts are so ravish'd
With sight of this renowmed<161> emperor,
That in mine arms I would have compass'd him.
But, Faustus, since I may not speak to them,
To satisfy my longing thoughts<162> at full,
Let me this tell thee: I have heard it said
That this fair lady, whilst<163> she liv'd on earth,
Had on her neck a little wart or mole;
How may I prove that saying to be true?
FAUSTUS. Your majesty may boldly go and see.
EMPEROR. Faustus, I see it plain;
And in this sight thou better pleasest me
Than if I gain'd<164> another monarchy.
FAUSTUS. Away! be gone! [Exit show.]--See, see, my gracious
lord! what strange beast is yon, that thrusts his head out at
window?<165>
EMPEROR. O, wondrous sight!--See, Duke of Saxony,
Two spreading horns most strangely fastened
Upon the head of young Benvolio!
SAXONY. What, is he asleep or dead?
FAUSTUS. He sleeps, my lord; but dreams not of his horns.
EMPEROR. This sport is excellent: we'll call and wake him.-What, ho, Benvolio!
BENVOLIO. A plague upon you! let me sleep a while.
EMPEROR. I blame thee not to sleep much, having such a head of
thine own.
SAXONY. Look up, Benvolio; 'tis the Emperor calls.
BENVOLIO. The Emperor! where?--O, zounds, my head!
EMPEROR. Nay, an thy horns hold, 'tis no matter for thy head,
for that's armed sufficiently.
FAUSTUS. Why, how now, Sir Knight! what, hanged by the horns!
this is<166> most horrible: fie, fie, pull in your head, for
shame! let not all the world wonder at you.
BENVOLIO. Zounds, doctor, this is<167> your villany!
FAUSTUS. O, say not so, sir! the doctor has no skill,
No art, no cunning, to present these lords,
Or bring before this royal Emperor
The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander.
If Faustus do it, you are straight resolv'd,
In bold Actaeon's shape, to turn a stag:-And therefore, my lord, so please your majesty,
I'll raise a kennel of hounds shall hunt him so
As<168> all his footmanship shall scarce prevail
To keep his carcass from their bloody fangs.-Ho, Belimoth, Argiron, Asteroth!<169>
BENVOLIO. Hold, hold!--Zounds, he'll raise up a kennel of devils,
I think, anon.--Good my lord, entreat for me.--'Sblood, I am never
able to endure these torments.
EMPEROR. Then, good Master Doctor,
Let me entreat you to remove his horns;
He has<170> done penance now sufficiently.
FAUSTUS. My gracious lord, not so much for injury done to me,
as to delight your majesty with some mirth, hath Faustus justly
requited this injurious knight; which being all I desire, I am
content to remove his horns.<171>--Mephistophilis, transform him
[MEPHISTOPHILIS removes the horns]:--and hereafter, sir,<172>
look you speak well of scholars.
BENVOLIO. Speak well of ye! 'sblood, an scholars be such
cuckold-makers, to clap horns of<173> honest men's heads o' this
order, I'll ne'er trust smooth faces and small ruffs more.--But,
an I be not revenged for this, would I might be turned to a
gaping oyster, and drink nothing but salt water!
[Aside, and then exit above.]
EMPEROR. Come, Faustus: while the Emperor lives,
In recompense of this thy high desert,
Thou shalt command the state of Germany,
And live belov'd of mighty Carolus.
[Exeunt.]
Enter BENVOLIO, MARTINO, FREDERICK, and SOLDIERS.
MARTINO. Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway<174> thy thoughts
>From this attempt against the conjurer.<175>
BENVOLIO. Away! you love me not, to urge me thus:
Shall I let slip so great an injury,
When every servile groom jests at my wrongs,
And in their rustic gambols proudly say,
"Benvolio's head was grac'd with horns today?"
O, may these eyelids never close again,
Till with my sword I have that<176> conjurer slain!
If you will aid me in this enterprise,
Then draw your weapons and be resolute;
If not, depart: here will Benvolio die,
But Faustus' death shall quit my<177> infamy.
FREDERICK. Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may,
And kill that<178> doctor, if he come this way.
BENVOLIO. Then, gentle Frederick, hie thee to the grove,
And place our servants and our followers
Close in an<179> ambush there behind the trees.
By this, I know the conjurer is near:
I saw him kneel, and kiss the Emperor's hand,
And take his leave, laden with rich rewards.
Then, soldiers, boldly<180> fight: if Faustus die,
Take you the wealth, leave us the victory.
FREDERICK. Come, soldiers, follow me unto the grove:
Who kills him shall have gold and endless love.
[Exit FREDERICK with SOLDIERS.]
BENVOLIO. My head is lighter, than it was, by the horns;
But yet my heart's<181> more ponderous than my head,
And pants until I see that<182> conjurer dead.
MARTINO. Where shall we place ourselves, Benvolio?
BENVOLIO. Here will we stay to bide the first assault:
O, were that damned hell-hound but in place,
Thou soon shouldst see me quit my foul disgrace!
Re-enter FREDERICK.
FREDERICK. Close, close! the conjurer is at hand,
And all alone comes walking in his gown;
Be ready, then, and strike the<183> peasant down.
BENVOLIO. Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home!
For horns he gave I'll have his head anon.
MARTINO. See, see, he comes!
Enter FAUSTUS with a false head.
BENVOLIO. No words. This blow ends all:
Hell take his soul! his body thus must fall.
[Stabs FAUSTUS.]
FAUSTUS. [falling.] O!
FREDERICK. Groan you, Master Doctor?
BENVOLIO. Break may his heart with groans!--Dear Frederick, see,
Thus will I end his griefs immediately.
MARTINO. Strike with a willing hand.
[BENVOLIO strikes off FAUSTUS' head.]
His head is off.
BENVOLIO. The devil's dead; the Furies now<184> may laugh.
FREDERICK. Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown,
Made the grim monarch of infernal spirits
Tremble and quake at his commanding charms?
MARTINO. Was this that damned head, whose art<185> conspir'd
Benvolio's shame before the Emperor?
BENVOLIO. Ay, that's the head, and there<186> the body lies,
Justly rewarded for his villanies.
FREDERICK. Come, let's devise how we may add more shame
To the black scandal of his hated name.
BENVOLIO. First, on his head, in quittance of my wrongs,
I'll nail huge forked horns, and let them hang
Within the window where he yok'd me first,
That all the world may see my just revenge.
MARTINO. What use shall we put his beard to?
BENVOLIO. We'll sell it to a chimney-sweeper: it will wear out
ten birchen brooms, I warrant you.
FREDERICK. What shall his<187> eyes do?
BENVOLIO. We'll pull<188> out his eyes; and they shall serve for
buttons to his lips, to keep his tongue from catching cold.
MARTINO. An excellent policy! and now, sirs, having divided him,
what shall the body do?
[FAUSTUS rises.]
BENVOLIO. Zounds, the devil's alive again!
FREDERICK. Give him his head, for God's sake.
FAUSTUS. Nay, keep it: Faustus will have heads and hands,
Ay, all<189> your hearts to recompense this deed.
Knew you not, traitors, I was limited
For four-and-twenty years to breathe on earth?
And, had you cut my body with your swords,
Or hew'd this flesh and bones as small as sand,
Yet in a minute had my spirit return'd,
And I had breath'd a man, made free from harm.
But wherefore do I dally my revenge?-Asteroth, Belimoth, Mephistophilis?
Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS, and other Devils.
Go, horse these traitors on your fiery backs,
And mount aloft with them as high as heaven:
Thence pitch them headlong to the lowest hell.
Yet, stay: the world shall see their misery,
And hell shall after plague their treachery.
Go, Belimoth, and take this caitiff hence,
And hurl him in some lake of mud and dirt.
Take thou this other, drag him through<190> the woods
Amongst<191> the pricking thorns and sharpest briers;
Whilst, with my gentle Mephistophilis,
This traitor flies unto some steepy rock,
That, rolling down, may break the villain's bones,
As he intended to dismember me.
Fly hence; despatch my charge immediately.
FREDERICK. Pity us, gentle Faustus! save our lives!
FAUSTUS. Away!
FREDERICK. He must needs go that the devil drives.
[Exeunt MEPHISTOPHILIS and DEVILS with BENVOLIO, MARTINO,
and FREDERICK.]
Enter the ambushed SOLDIERS.<192>
FIRST SOLDIER. Come, sirs, prepare yourselves in readiness;
Make haste to help these noble gentlemen:
I heard them parley with the conjurer.
SECOND SOLDIER. See, where he comes! despatch and kill the slave.
FAUSTUS. What's here? an ambush to betray my life!
Then, Faustus, try thy skill.--Base peasants, stand!
For, lo, these<193> trees remove at my command,
And stand as bulwarks 'twixt yourselves and me,
To shield me from your hated treachery!
Yet, to encounter this your weak attempt,
Behold, an army comes incontinent!
[FAUSTUS strikes the door,<194> and enter a DEVIL playing
on a drum; after him another, bearing an ensign; and divers
with weapons; MEPHISTOPHILIS with fire-works. They set upon
the SOLDIERS, drive them out, and exeunt.]
Enter, at several doors, BENVOLIO, FREDERICK, and MARTINO,
their heads and faces bloody, and besmeared with mud and
dirt; all having horns on their heads.
MARTINO. What, ho, Benvolio!
BENVOLIO. Here.--What, Frederick, ho!
FREDERICK. O, help me, gentle friend!--Where is Martino?
MARTINO. Dear Frederick, here,
Half smother'd in a lake of mud and dirt,
Through which the Furies dragg'd me by the heels.
FREDERICK. Martino, see, Benvolio's horns again!
MARTINO. O, misery!--How now, Benvolio!
BENVOLIO. Defend me, heaven! shall I be haunted still?
MARTINO. Nay, fear not, man; we have no power to kill.
BENVOLIO. My friends transformed thus! O, hellish spite!
Your heads are all set with horns.
FREDERICK. You hit it right;
It is your own you mean; feel on your head.
BENVOLIO. Zounds,<195> horns again!
MARTINO. Nay, chafe not, man; we all are<196> sped.
BENVOLIO. What devil attends this damn'd magician,
That, spite of spite, our wrongs are doubled?
FREDERICK. What may we do, that we may hide our shames?
BENVOLIO. If we should follow him to work revenge,
He'd join long asses' ears to these huge horns,
And make us laughing-stocks to all the world.
MARTINO. What shall we, then, do, dear Benvolio?
BENVOLIO. I have a castle joining near these woods;
And thither we'll repair, and live obscure,
Till time shall alter these<197> our brutish shapes:
Sith black disgrace hath thus eclips'd our fame,
We'll rather die with grief than live with shame.
[Exeunt.]
Enter FAUSTUS, a HORSE-COURSER, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.
F.’s degradation into a clown
HORSE-COURSER. I beseech your worship, accept of these forty dollars.
Playing jokes on simple people
FAUSTUS. Friend, thou canst not buy so good a horse for so small
a price. I have no great need to sell him: but, if thou likest
him for ten dollars more, take him, because I see thou hast a
good mind to him.
HORSE-COURSER. I beseech you, sir, accept of this: I am a very
poor man, and have lost very much of late by horse-flesh, and
this bargain will set me up again.
FAUSTUS. Well, I will not stand with thee: give me the money
[HORSE-COURSER gives FAUSTUS the money]. Now, sirrah, I must
tell you that you may ride him o'er hedge and ditch, and spare
him not; but, do you hear? in any case, ride him not into the
water.
HORSE-COURSER. How, sir! not into the water! why, will he not
drink of all waters?
FAUSTUS. Yes, he will drink of all waters; but ride him not into
the water: o'er hedge and ditch, or where thou wilt, but not into
the water. Go, bid the hostler deliver him unto you, and remember
what I say.
HORSE-COURSER. I warrant you, sir!--O, joyful day! now am I a
made man for ever.
[Exit.]
FAUSTUS. What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemn'd to die?
Thy fatal time draws to a final end;
Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts:
Confound these passions with a quiet sleep:
Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the Cross;
Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit.
[He sits to sleep.]
Re-enter the HORSE-COURSER, wet.
HORSE-COURSER. 0, what a cozening doctor was this! I, riding
my horse into the water, thinking some hidden mystery had been
in the horse, I had nothing under me but a little straw, and had
much ado to escape<198> drowning. Well, I'll go rouse him, and
make him give me my forty dollars again.--Ho, sirrah Doctor, you
cozening scab! Master Doctor, awake, and rise, and give me my
money again, for your horse is turned to a bottle of hay, Master
Doctor! [He pulls off FAUSTUS' leg]. Alas, I am undone! what
shall I do? I have pulled off his leg.
FAUSTUS. O, help, help! the villain hath murdered me.
HORSE-COURSER. Murder or not murder, now he has<199> but one leg,
I'll outrun him, and cast this leg into some ditch or other.
[Aside, and then runs out.]
FAUSTUS. Stop him, stop him, stop him!--Ha, ha, ha! Faustus hath
his leg again, and the Horse-courser a bundle of hay for his
forty dollars.
Enter WAGNER.
How now, Wagner! what news with thee?
WAGNER. If it please you, the Duke of Vanholt doth earnestly
entreat your company, and hath sent some of his men to attend
you,<200> with provision fit for your journey.
FAUSTUS. The Duke of Vanholt's an honourable gentleman, and one
to whom I must be no niggard of my cunning. Come, away!
[Exeunt.
Enter ROBIN, DICK, the HORSE-COURSER, and a CARTER.
CARTER. Come, my masters, I'll bring you to the best beer in
Europe.--What, ho, hostess! where be these whores?
Enter HOSTESS.
HOSTESS. How now! what lack you? What, my old guess!<201> welcome.
ROBIN. Sirrah Dick, dost thou<202> know why I stand so mute?
DICK. No, Robin: why is't?
ROBIN. I am eighteen-pence on the score. but say nothing; see
if she have forgotten me.
HOSTESS. Who's this that stands so solemnly by himself? What,
my old guest!
ROBIN. O, hostess, how do you? I hope my score stands still.
HOSTESS. Ay, there's no doubt of that; for methinks you make no
haste to wipe it out.
DICK. Why, hostess, I say, fetch us some beer.
HOSTESS. You shall presently.--Look up into the hall there, ho!
[Exit.--Drink is presently brought in.]
DICK. Come, sirs, what shall we do now<203> till mine hostess comes?
CARTER. Marry, sir,<204> I'll tell you the bravest tale how a
conjurer served me. You know Doctor Faustus?
HORSE-COURSER. Ay, a plague take him! here's some on's have cause
to know him. Did he conjure thee too?
CARTER. I'll tell you how he served me. As I was going to
Wittenberg, t'other day,<205> with a load of hay, he met me, and
asked me what he should give me for as much hay as he could eat.
Now, sir, I thinking that a little would serve his turn, bad him
take as much as he would for three farthings: so he presently
gave me my<206> money and fell to eating; and, as I am a cursen<207>
man, he never left eating till he had eat up all my load of hay.
ALL. O, monstrous! eat a whole load of hay!
ROBIN. Yes, yes, that may be; for I have heard of one that has eat
a load of logs.
HORSE-COURSER. Now, sirs, you shall hear how villanously he
served me. I went to him yesterday to buy a horse of him, and
he would by no means sell him under forty dollars. So, sir,
because I knew him to be such a horse as would run over hedge
and ditch and never tire, I gave him his money. So, when I had
my horse, Doctor Faustus bad me ride him night and day, and spare
him no time; but, quoth he, in any case, ride him not into the
water. Now, sir, I thinking the horse had had some quality<208>
that he would not have me know of, what did I but rid<209> him
into a great river? and when I came just in the midst, my horse
vanished away, and I sate straddling upon a bottle of hay.
ALL. O, brave doctor!
HORSE-COURSER. But you shall hear how bravely I served him for
it. I went me home to his house, and there I found him asleep.
I kept a hallooing and whooping in his ears; but all could not
wake him. I, seeing that, took him by the leg, and never rested
pulling till I had pulled me his leg quite off; and now 'tis at
home in mine hostry.
ROBIN. And has the doctor but one leg, then? that's excellent;
for one of his devils turned me into the likeness of an ape's face.
CARTER. Some more drink, hostess!
ROBIN. Hark you, we'll into another room and drink a while, and
then we'll go seek out the doctor.
[Exeunt.]
Enter the DUKE OF VANHOLT, his DUCHESS, FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS,
and ATTENDANTS.
DUKE. Thanks, Master Doctor, for these pleasant sights; nor know
I how sufficiently to recompense your great deserts in erecting
that enchanted castle in the air,<210> the sight whereof so
delighted<211> me as nothing in the world could please me more.
FAUSTUS. I do think myself, my good lord, highly recompensed in
that it pleaseth<212> your grace to think but well of that which
Faustus hath performed.--But, gracious lady, it may be that you
have taken no pleasure in those sights; therefore, I pray you
tell me, what is the thing you most desire to have; be it in the
world, it shall be yours: I have heard that great-bellied women
do long for things are rare and dainty.
DUCHESS. True, Master Doctor; and, since I find you so kind,
I will make known unto you what my heart desires to have; and,
were it now summer, as it is January, a dead time of the winter,
I would request no better meat than a dish of ripe grapes.
FAUSTUS. This is but a small matter.--Go, Mephistophilis; away!
[Exit MEPHISTOPHILIS.]
Madam, I will do more than this for your content.
Re-Enter MEPHISTOPHILIS with grapes.
Here now, taste you these: they should be good, for they come<213>
from a far country, I can tell you.
DUKE. This makes me wonder more than all the rest, that at this
time of the year, when every tree is barren of his fruit, from
whence you had these ripe grapes.<214>
FAUSTUS. Please it your grace, the year is divided into two
circles over the whole world; so that, when it is winter with
us, in the contrary circle it is likewise summer with them, as
in India, Saba, and such countries that lie far east, where
they have fruit twice a-year; from whence, by means of a swift
spirit that I have, I had these grapes brought, as you see.
DUCHESS. And, trust me, they are the sweetest grapes that e'er
I tasted.
[The CLOWNS bounce<215> at the gate, within.]
DUKE. What rude disturbers have we at the gate?
Go, pacify their fury, set it ope,
And then demand of them what they would have.
[They knock again, and call out to talk with FAUSTUS.]
SERVANT. Why, how now, masters! what a coil is there!
What is the reason you disturb the Duke?
DICK [within]. We have no reason for it; therefore a fig for him!
SERVANT. Why, saucy varlets, dare you be so bold?
HORSE-COURSER [within]. I hope, sir, we have wit enough to be
more bold than welcome.
SERVANT. It appears so: pray, be bold elsewhere, and trouble
not the Duke.
DUKE. What would they have?
SERVANT. They all cry out to speak with Doctor Faustus.
CARTER [within]. Ay, and we will speak with him.
DUKE. Will you, sir?--Commit the rascals.
DICK [within]. Commit with us! he were as good commit with his
father as commit with us.
FAUSTUS. I do beseech your grace, let them come in;
They are good subject for<216> a merriment.
DUKE. Do as thou wilt, Faustus; I give thee leave.
FAUSTUS. I thank your grace.
Enter ROBIN, DICK, CARTER, and HORSE-COURSER.
Why, how now, my good friends!
Faith, you are too outrageous: but, come near;
I have procur'd your pardons:<217> welcome, all.
ROBIN. Nay, sir, we will be welcome for our money, and we will
pay for what we take.--What, ho! give's half a dozen of beer here,
and be hanged!
FAUSTUS. Nay, hark you; can you tell me<218> where you are?
CARTER. Ay, marry, can I; we are under heaven.
SERVANT. Ay; but, Sir Saucebox, know you in what place?
HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, the house is good enough to drink in.
--Zouns, fill us some beer, or we'll break all the barrels in
the house, and dash out all your brains with your bottles!
FAUSTUS. Be not so furious: come, you shall have beer.-My lord, beseech you give me leave a while;
I'll gage my credit 'twill content your grace.
DUKE. With all my heart, kind doctor; please thyself;
Our servants and our court's at thy command.
FAUSTUS. I humbly thank your grace.--Then fetch some beer.
HORSE-COURSER. Ay, marry, there spake<219> a doctor, indeed!
and, faith, I'll drink a health to thy wooden leg for that word.
FAUSTUS. My wooden leg! what dost thou mean by that?
CARTER. Ha, ha, ha!--Dost hear him,<220> Dick? he has forgot his
leg.
HORSE-COURSER. Ay, ay, he does not stand much upon that.
FAUSTUS. No, faith; not much upon a wooden leg.
CARTER. Good Lord, that flesh and blood should be so frail with
your worship! Do not you remember a horse-courser you sold a
horse to?
FAUSTUS. Yes, I remember I sold one a horse.
CARTER. And do you remember you bid he should not ride him<221>
into the water?
FAUSTUS. Yes, I do very well remember that.
CARTER. And do you remember nothing of your leg?
FAUSTUS. No, in good sooth.
CARTER. Then, I pray you,<222> remember your courtesy.
FAUSTUS. I<223> thank you, sir.
CARTER. 'Tis not so much worth. I pray you, tell me one thing.
FAUSTUS. What's that?
CARTER. Be both your legs bed-fellows every night together?
FAUSTUS. Wouldst thou make a Colossus of me, that thou askest me
such questions?
CARTER. No, truly, sir; I would make nothing of you; but I would
fain know that.
Enter HOSTESS with drink.
FAUSTUS. Then, I assure thee certainly, they are.
CARTER. I thank you; I am fully satisfied.
FAUSTUS. But wherefore dost thou ask?
CARTER. For nothing, sir: but methinks you should have a wooden
bed-fellow of one of 'em.
HORSE-COURSER. Why, do you hear, sir? did not I<224> pull off
one of your legs when you were asleep?
FAUSTUS. But I have it again, now I am awake: look you here, sir.
ALL. O, horrible! had the doctor three legs?
CARTER. Do you remember, sir, how you cozened me, and eat up my
load of---[FAUSTUS, in the middle of each speech, charms them dumb.]
DICK. Do you remember how you made me wear an ape's---HORSE-COURSER. You whoreson conjuring scab, do you remember how
you cozened me with a ho---ROBIN. Ha'<225> you forgotten me? you think to carry it away with
your hey-pass and re-pass: do you remember the dog's fa---[Exeunt CLOWNS.]
HOSTESS. Who pays for the ale? hear you, Master Doctor; now you
have sent away my guess,<226> I pray who shall pay me for my a---[Exit HOSTESS.]
DUCHESS. My lord,
We are much beholding<227> to this learned man.
DUKE. So are we, madam; which we will recompense
With all the love and kindness that we may:
His artful sport<228> drives all sad thoughts away.
[Exeunt.]
Thunder and lightning. Enter DEVILS with covered dishes;
MEPHISTOPHILIS leads them into FAUSTUS'S study; then enter
WAGNER.
WAGNER. I think my master<229> means to die shortly; he has made
his will, and given me his wealth, his house, his goods,<230> and
store of golden plate, besides two thousand ducats ready-coined.
I wonder what he means: if death were nigh, he would not frolic
thus. He's now at supper with the scholars, where there's such
belly-cheer as Wagner in his life ne'er<231> saw the like: and,
see where they come! belike the feast is ended.<232>
[Exit.]
Enter FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, and two or three SCHOLARS.
FIRST SCHOLAR. Master Doctor Faustus, since our conference
about fair ladies, which was the beautifulest in all the world,
we have determined with ourselves that Helen of Greece was the
admirablest lady that ever lived: therefore, Master Doctor, if
you will do us so much favour as to let us see that peerless
dame of Greece, whom all the world admires for majesty, we should
think ourselves much beholding unto you.
FAUSTUS. Gentlemen,
For that I know your friendship is unfeign'd,
It is not Faustus' custom to deny
The just request of those that wish him well:
You shall behold that peerless dame of Greece,
No otherwise for pomp or majesty
Than when Sir Paris cross'd the seas with her,
And brought the spoils to rich Dardania.
Be silent, then, for danger is in words.
Music sounds. MEPHISTOPHILIS brings in HELEN; she passeth
over the stage.
SECOND SCHOLAR. Was this fair Helen, whose admired worth
Made Greece with ten years' war<233> afflict poor Troy?
THIRD SCHOLAR. Too simple is my wit<234> to tell her worth,
Whom all the world admires for majesty.
FIRST SCHOLAR. Now we have seen the pride of Nature's work,
We'll take our leaves: and, for this blessed sight,
Happy and blest be Faustus evermore!
FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: the same wish I to you.
[Exeunt SCHOLARS.]
Enter an OLD MAN.
OLD MAN. O gentle Faustus, leave this damned art,
This magic, that will charm thy soul to hell,
And quite bereave thee of salvation!
Though thou hast now offended like a man,
Do not persever in it like a devil:
Yet, yet thou hast an amiable soul,
If sin by custom grow not into nature;
Then, Faustus, will repentance come too late;
Then thou art banish'd from the sight of heaven:
No mortal can express the pains of hell.
It may be, this my exhortation
Seems harsh and all unpleasant: let it not;
For, gentle son, I speak it not in wrath,
Or envy of thee,<235> but in tender love,
And pity of thy future misery;
And so have hope that this my kind rebuke,
Checking thy body, may amend thy soul.
warning, voice of wisdom
leave forbidden magic,
Repent - it’s never too late
but once you’re damned your soul cannot be reclaimed
FAUSTUS. Where art thou, Faustus? wretch, what hast thou done?
Hell claims his right, and with a roaring voice
Says, "Faustus, come; thine hour is almost come;"
F. starts thinking about the expiry or his
And Faustus now will come to do thee right.
contract
[MEPHISTOPHILIS gives him a dagger.]
OLD MAN. O, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps!
I see an angel hover o'er thy head,
guardian angel, chance of salvation
And, with a vial full of precious grace,
Offers to pour the same into thy soul:
Then call for mercy, and avoid despair.
Rely of God’s mercy
FAUSTUS. O friend, I feel
Thy words to comfort my distressed soul!
Leave me a while to ponder on my sins.
F. again showns sign of remorse
OLD MAN. Faustus, I leave thee; but with grief of heart,
Fearing the enemy of thy hapless soul.
[Exit.]
FAUSTUS. Accursed Faustus, wretch, what hast thou done?
I do repent; and yet I do despair:
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast:
What shall I do to shun the snares of death?
MEPHIST. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord:
Revolt, or I'll in piece-meal tear thy flesh.
M. threatens him
FAUSTUS. I do repent I e'er offended him.
Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord
To pardon my unjust presumption,
And with my blood again I will confirm
The former vow I made to Lucifer.
F. repents his sins?
No – he repents he offended Lucifer
MEPHIST.<236> Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned heart,
Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift.
FAUSTUS. Torment, sweet friend, that base and aged man, F. is to take a revenge on the Old Man
That durst dissuade me from thy Lucifer,
With greatest torments<237> that our hell affords.
MEPHIST. His faith is great; I cannot touch his soul;
But what I may afflict<238> his body with
I will attempt, which is but little worth.
M. cannot do harm to ones with strong faith
FAUSTUS. One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee, ignorance: who is the servant?
To glut the longing of my heart's desire,-That I may have unto my paramour
That heavenly Helen which I saw of late,
Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean<239>
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow,
And keep my oath<240> I made to Lucifer.
MEPHIST. This, or what else my Faustus shall desire,
Shall be perform'd in twinkling of an eye.
Re-enter HELEN, passing over the stage between two CUPIDS.
FAUSTUS. Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?-Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.-[Kisses her.]
Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy, shall Wittenberg be sack'd;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
O, thou art fairer than the evening<241> air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appear'd to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd<242> arms;
And none but thou shalt<243> be my paramour!
[Exeunt.]
Thunder. Enter LUCIFER, BELZEBUB, and MEPHISTOPHILIS.
LUCIFER. Thus from infernal Dis do we ascend
To view the subjects of our monarchy,
Those souls which sin seals the black sons of hell;
'Mong which, as chief, Faustus, we come to thee,
Bringing with us lasting damnation
To wait upon thy soul: the time is come
Which makes it forfeit.
MEPHIST. And, this gloomy night,
Here, in this room, will wretched Faustus be.
BELZEBUB. And here we'll stay,
To mark him how he doth demean himself.
F.’s time has come
MEPHIST. How should he but in desperate lunacy?
Fond worldling, now his heart-blood dries with grief;
His conscience kills it; and his<244> labouring brain
Begets a world of idle fantasies
To over-reach the devil; but all in vain;
His store of pleasures must be sauc'd with pain.
He and his servant Wagner are at hand;
Both come from drawing Faustus' latest will.
See, where they come!
Enter FAUSTUS and WAGNER.
FAUSTUS. Say, Wagner,--thou hast perus<'>d my will,-How dost thou like it?
WAGNER. Sir, So wondrous well,
As in all humble duty I do yield
My life and lasting service for your love.
FAUSTUS. Gramercy,<245> Wagner.
Enter SCHOLARS.
Welcome, Gentlemen.
[Exit WAGNER.]
FIRST SCHOLAR. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are chang'd.
FAUSTUS. O, gentlemen!
SECOND SCHOLAR. What ails Faustus?
FAUSTUS. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee,
then had I lived still! but now must die eternally. Look, sirs,
comes he not? comes he not?
FIRST SCHOLAR. O my dear Faustus, what imports this fear?
SECOND SCHOLAR. Is all our pleasure turn'd to melancholy?
THIRD SCHOLAR. He is not well with being over-solitary.
SECOND SCHOLAR. If it be so, we'll have physicians,
And Faustus shall be cur'd.
THIRD SCHOLAR. 'Tis but a surfeit, sir;<246> fear nothing.
FAUSTUS. A surfeit of deadly<247> sin, that hath damned both
body and soul.
SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven, and remember
mercy is infinite.
warning
FAUSTUS. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned: the serpent intentional ignorance
that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. O gentlemen,
hear me<248> with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though
my heart pant and quiver to remember that I have been a student
here these thirty years, O, would I had never<249> seen Wittenberg,
never read book! and what wonders I have done, all Germany can
witness, yea, all the world; for which Faustus hath lost both
Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat of
God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy; and must
remain in hell for ever, hell. O, hell, for ever! Sweet friends,
what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever?
SECOND SCHOLAR. Yet, Faustus, call on God.
FAUSTUS. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! on God, whom Faustus
hath blasphemed! O my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in
my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! yea, life and soul!
O, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they
hold 'em, they hold 'em? <'?' sic>
climax
ALL. Who, Faustus?
FAUSTUS. Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen, I gave
them my soul for my cunning!
ALL. O, God forbid!
FAUSTUS. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it: for
the vain pleasure of four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost
eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood:
the date is expired; this is the time, and he will fetch me.
FIRST SCHOLAR. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before,
that divines might have prayed for thee?
FAUSTUS. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil
threatened to tear me in pieces, if I named God, to fetch me
body and soul, if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis<250>
too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me.
SECOND SCHOLAR. O, what may we do to save Faustus?
FAUSTUS. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart.
THIRD SCHOLAR. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus.
See:
Everyman
FIRST SCHOLAR. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the
next room, and pray for him.
FAUSTUS. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever
you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.
SECOND SCHOLAR. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy
upon thee.
FAUSTUS. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till morning, I'll visit
you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.
ALL. Faustus, farewell.
[Exeunt SCHOLARS.]
MEPHIST. Ay, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of heaven;
Therefore despair; think only upon hell,
For that must be thy mansion, there to dwell.
FAUSTUS. O thou bewitching fiend, 'twas thy temptation
M. misleads Faustus again
Hath robb'd me of eternal happiness!
MEPHIST. I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice:
'Twas I that, when thou wert i'the way to heaven,
Damm'd up thy passage; when thou took'st the book
To view the Scriptures, then I turn'd the leaves,
And led thine eye.<251>
What, weep'st thou? 'tis too late; despair! Farewell:
Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in hell.
[Exit.]<252>
temptation
Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL at several doors.
GOOD ANGEL. 0 Faustus, if thou hadst given ear to me,
Innumerable joys had follow'd thee!
But thou didst love the world.
Elizabethan stagecraft
now it is too late
EVIL ANGEL. Gave ear to me,
And now must taste hell-pains<253> perpetually.
GOOD ANGEL. O, what will all thy riches, pleasures, pomps,
Avail thee now?
EVIL ANGEL. Nothing, but vex thee more,
To want in hell, that had on earth such store.
GOOD ANGEL. 0, thou hast lost celestial happiness,
Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end
Hadst thou affected sweet divinity,
Hell or the devil had had no power on thee:
Hadst thou kept on that way, Faustus, behold,
[Music, while a throne descends.]
In what resplendent glory thou hadst sit<254>
In yonder throne, like those bright-shining saints,
And triumph'd over hell! That hast thou lost;
And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee:
The jaws of hell are open<255> to receive thee.
[Exit. The throne ascends.]
even his guardian angel leaves F.
EVIL ANGEL. Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare
[Hell is discovered.]
Into that vast perpetual torture-house:
There are the Furies tossing damned souls
On burning forks; there bodies boil<256> in lead;
There are live quarters broiling on the coals,
That ne'er can die; this ever-burning chair
Is for o'er-tortur'd souls to rest them in;
These that are fed with sops of flaming fire,
Were gluttons, and lov'd only delicates,
And laugh'd to see the poor starve at their gates:
But yet all these are nothing; thou shalt see
Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be.
FAUSTUS. O, I have seen enough to torture me!
EVIL ANGEL. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the smart of all:
He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall:
And so I leave thee, Faustus, till anon;
Then wilt thou tumble in confusion.
[Exit. Hell disappears.--The clock strikes eleven.]
FAUSTUS. O Faustus,
final soliloquy, heroic eloquence
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
his final hour, 60 lines!
And then thou must be damn'd perpetually!
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
you cannot negotiate with death
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
(as in Everyman)
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lente, lente currite, noctis equi!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. extraordinary conciseness
O, I'll leap up to heaven!--Who pulls me down?-See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!<257>
One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!-he shows remorse
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;
Yet will I call on him: O, spare me, Lucifer!-but is not strong enough in his faith
Where is it now? 'tis gone:
And, see, a threatening arm, an<258> angry brow!
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven!
No!
Then will I headlong run into the earth:
Gape, earth! O, no, it will not harbour me!
You stars that reign'd at my nativity,
Whose influence hath<259> allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon<260> labouring cloud[s],
That, when you<261> vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths;
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven!
[The clock strikes the half-hour.]
30 lines
O, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon.
O, if<262> my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pain;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last<263> be sav'd!
No end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
O, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd
Into some brutish beast! all beasts are happy,
For, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements;
But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.
[The clock strikes twelve.]
It strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
O soul, be chang'd into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
Thunder. Enter DEVILS.
O, mercy, heaven! look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!
Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books!--O Mephistophilis!
[Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.]
Prospero
Enter SCHOLARS.<264>
FIRST SCHOLAR. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus,
For such a dreadful night was never seen;
Since first the world's creation did begin,
Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard:
Pray heaven the doctor have escap'd the danger.
SECOND SCHOLAR.
O, help us, heaven!<265> see, here are Faustus' limbs,
All torn asunder by the hand of death!
Elizabethan stagecraft
THIRD SCHOLAR.
The devils whom Faustus serv'd have<266> torn him thus;
For, twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought,
I heard him shriek and call aloud for help;
At which self<267> time the house seem'd all on fire
With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.
SECOND SCHOLAR. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such
As every Christian heart laments to think on,
Yet, for he was a scholar once admir'd
For wondrous knowledge in our German schools,
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial;
And all the students, cloth'd in mourning black,
Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.
[Exeunt.]
Enter CHORUS.
Epilogue
CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough,
That sometime grew within this learned man.
Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise,
Only to wonder at unlawful things,
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practise more than heavenly power permits.
[Exit.]
Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.
Moral teaching
A Defence of Poesie and Poems
by Philip Sidney
...
At first, truly, to all them that, professing learning, inveigh
against poetry, may justly be objected, that they go very near to
ungratefulness to seek to deface that which, in the noblest nations
and languages that are known, hath been the first light-giver to
ignorance, and first nurse, whose milk by little and little enabled
them to feed afterwards of tougher knowledges. And will you play
the hedgehog, that being received into the den, drove out his host?
{3} or rather the vipers, that with their birth kill their parents?
{4}
Let learned Greece, in any of her manifold sciences, be able to show
me one book before Musaeus, Homer, and Hesiod, all three nothing
else but poets. Nay, let any history he brought that can say any
writers were there before them, if they were not men of the same
skill, as Orpheus, Linus, and some others are named, who having been
the first of that country that made pens deliverers of their
knowledge to posterity, may justly challenge to be called their
fathers in learning. For not only in time they had this priority
(although in itself antiquity be venerable) but went before them as
causes to draw with their charming sweetness the wild untamed wits
to an admiration of knowledge. So as Amphion was said to move
stones with his poetry to build Thebes, and Orpheus to be listened
to by beasts, indeed, stony and beastly people, so among the Romans
were Livius Andronicus, and Ennius; so in the Italian language, the
first that made it to aspire to be a treasure-house of science, were
the poets Dante, Boccace, and Petrarch; so in our English were Gower
and Chaucer; after whom, encouraged and delighted with their
excellent foregoing, others have followed to beautify our mother
tongue, as well in the same kind as other arts.
This {5} did so notably show itself that the philosophers of Greece
durst not a long time appear to the world but under the mask of
poets; so Thales, Empedocles, and Parmenides sang their natural
philosophy in verses; so did Pythagoras and Phocylides their moral
counsels; so did Tyrtaeus in war matters; and Solon in matters of
policy; or rather they, being poets, did exercise their delightful
vein in those points of highest knowledge, which before them lay
hidden to the world; for that wise Solon was directly a poet it is
manifest, having written in verse the notable fable of the Atlantic
Island, which was continued by Plato. {6} And, truly, even Plato,
whosoever well considereth shall find that in the body of his work,
though the inside and strength were philosophy, the skin, as it
were, and beauty depended most of poetry. For all stands upon
dialogues; wherein he feigns many honest burgesses of Athens
speaking of such matters that if they had been set on the rack they
would never have confessed them; besides, his poetical describing
the circumstances of their meetings, as the well-ordering of a
banquet, the delicacy of a walk, with interlacing mere tiles, as
Gyges's Ring, {7} and others; which, who knows not to be flowers of
poetry, did never walk into Apollo's garden.
And {8} even historiographers, although their lips sound of things
done, and verity be written in their foreheads, have been glad to
borrow both fashion and, perchance, weight of the poets; so
Herodotus entitled the books of his history by the names of the Nine
Muses; and both he, and all the rest that followed him, either stole
or usurped, of poetry, their passionate describing of passions, the
many particularities of battles which no man could affirm; or, if
that be denied me, long orations, put in the months of great kings
and captains, which it is certain they never pronounced.
...
Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry
as divers poets have done; neither with so pleasant rivers, fruitful
trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the toomuch-loved earth more lovely; her world is brazen, the poets only
deliver a golden.
But let those things alone, and go to man; {14} for whom as the
other things are, so it seemeth in him her uttermost cunning is
employed; and know, whether she have brought forth so true a lover
as Theagenes; so constant a friend as Pylades; so valiant a man as
Orlando; so right a prince as Xenophon's Cyrus; and so excellent a
man every way as Virgil's AEneas? Neither let this be jestingly
conceived, because the works of the one be essential, the other in
imitation or fiction; for every understanding knoweth the skill of
each artificer standeth in that idea, or fore-conceit of the work,
and not in the work itself. And that the poet hath that idea is
manifest by delivering them forth in such excellency as he had
imagined them; which delivering forth, also, is not wholly
imaginative, as we are wont to say by them that build castles in the
air; but so far substantially it worketh not only to make a Cyrus,
which had been but a particular excellency, as nature might have
done; but to bestow a Cyrus upon the world to make many Cyruses; if
they will learn aright, why, and how, that maker made him. Neither
let it be deemed too saucy a comparison to balance the highest point
of man's wit with the efficacy of nature; but rather give right
honour to the heavenly Maker of that maker, who having made man to
His own likeness, set him beyond and over all the works of that
second nature; which in nothing he showeth so much as in poetry;
when, with the force of a divine breath, he bringeth things forth
surpassing her doings, with no small arguments to the incredulous of
that first accursed fall of Adam; since our erected wit maketh us
know what perfection is, and yet our infected will keepeth us from
reaching unto it. But these arguments will by few be understood,
and by fewer granted; thus much I hope will be given me, that the
Greeks, with some probability of reason, gave him the name above all
names of learning.
Now {15} let us go to a more ordinary opening of him, that the truth
may be the more palpable; and so, I hope, though we get not so
unmatched a praise as the etymology of his names will grant, yet his
very description, which no man will deny, shall not justly be barred
from a principal commendation.
Poesy, {16} therefore, is an art of imitation; for so Aristotle
termeth it in the word [Greek text]; that is to say, a representing,
counterfeiting, or figuring forth: to speak metaphorically, a
speaking picture, with this end, to teach and delight.
Of {17} this have been three general kinds: the CHIEF, both in
antiquity and excellency, which they that did imitate the
inconceivable excellencies of God; such were David in the Psalms;
Solomon in the Song of Songs, in his Ecclesiastes, and Proverbs;
Moses and Deborah in their hymns; and the writer of Job; which,
beside others, the learned Emanuel Tremellius and Fr. Junius do
entitle the poetical part of the scripture; against these none will
speak that hath the Holy Ghost in due holy reverence. In this kind,
though in a wrong divinity, were Orpheus, Amphion, Homer in his
hymns, and many others, both Greeks and Romans. And this poesy must
be used by whosoever will follow St. Paul's counsel, in singing
psalms when they are merry; and I know is used with the fruit of
comfort by some, when, in sorrowful pangs of their death-bringing
sins, they find the consolation of the never-leaving goodness.
The {18} SECOND kind is of them that deal with matter philosophical;
either moral, as Tyrtaeus, Phocylides, Cato, or, natural, as
Lucretius, Virgil's Georgics; or astronomical, as Manilius {19} and
Pontanus; or historical, as Lucan; which who mislike, the fault is
in their judgment, quite out of taste, and not in the sweet food of
sweetly uttered knowledge.
But because this second sort is wrapped within the fold of the
proposed subject, and takes not the free course of his own
invention; whether they properly be poets or no, let grammarians
dispute, and go to the THIRD, {20} indeed right poets, of whom
chiefly this question ariseth; betwixt whom and these second is such
a kind of difference, as betwixt the meaner sort of painters, who
counterfeit only such faces as are set before them; and the more
excellent, who having no law but wit, bestow that in colours upon
you which is fittest for the eye to see; as the constant, though
lamenting look of Lucretia, when she punished in herself another's
fault; wherein he painteth not Lucretia, whom he never saw, but
painteth the outward beauty of such a virtue. For these three be
they which most properly do imitate to teach and delight; and to
imitate, borrow nothing of what is, hath been, or shall be; but
range only, reined with learned discretion, into the divine
consideration of what may be, and should be. These be they, that,
as the first and most noble sort, may justly be termed "vates;" so
these are waited on in the excellentest languages and best
understandings, with the fore-described name of poets. For these,
indeed, do merely make to imitate, and imitate both to delight and
teach, and delight to move men to take that goodness in hand, which,
without delight they would fly as from a stranger; and teach to make
them know that goodness whereunto they are moved; which being the
noblest scope to which ever any learning was directed, yet want
there not idle tongues to bark at them.
These {21} be subdivided into sundry more special denominations; the
most notable be the heroic, lyric, tragic, comic, satyric, iambic,
elegiac, pastoral, and certain others; some of these being termed
according to the matter they deal with; some by the sort of verse
they like best to write in; for, indeed, the greatest part of poets
have apparelled their poetical inventions in that numerous kind of
writing which is called verse. Indeed, but apparelied verse, being
but an ornament, and no cause to poetry, since there have been many
most excellent poets that never versified, and now swarm many
versifiers that need never answer to the name of poets. {22} For
Xenophon, who did imitate so excellently as to give us effigiem
justi imperii, the portraiture of a just of Cyrus, as Cicero saith
of him, made therein an absolute heroical poem. So did Heliodorus,
{23} in his sugared invention of Theagenes and Chariclea; and yet
both these wrote in prose; which I speak to show, that it is not
rhyming and versing that maketh a poet (no more than a long gown
maketh an advocate, who, though he pleaded in armour should be an
advocate and no soldier); but it is that feigning notable images of
virtues, vices, or what else, with that delightful teaching, which
must be the right describing note to know a poet by. Although,
indeed, the senate of poets have chosen verse as their fittest
raiment; meaning, as in matter they passed all in all, so in manner
to go beyond them; not speaking table-talk fashion, or like men in a
dream, words as they changeably fall from the mouth, but piecing
each syllable of each word by just proportion, according to the
dignity of the subject.
Now, {24} therefore, it shall not be amiss, first, to weight this
latter sort of poetry by his WORKS, and then by his PARTS; and if in
neither of these anatomies he be commendable, I hope we shall
receive a more favourable sentence. This purifying of wit, this
enriching of memory, enabling of judgment, and enlarging of conceit,
which commonly we call learning under what name soever it come
forth, or to what immediate end soever it be directed; the final end
is, to lead and draw us to as high a perfection as our degenerate
souls, made worse by, their clay lodgings, {25} can be capable of.
This, according to the inclination of man, bred many formed
impressions; for some that thought this felicity principally to be
gotten by knowledge, and no knowledge to be so high or heavenly as
to be acquainted with the stars, gave themselves to astronomy;
others, persuading themselves to be demi-gods, if they knew the
causes of things, became natural and supernatural philosophers.
Some an admirable delight drew to music, and some the certainty of
demonstrations to the mathematics; but all, one and other, having
this scope to know, and by knowledge to lift up the mind from the
dungeon of the body to the enjoying his own divine essence. But
when, by the balance of experience, it was found that the
astronomer, looking to the stars, might fall in a ditch; that the
enquiring philosopher might be blind in himself; and the
mathematician might draw forth a straight line with a crooked heart;
then lo! did proof, the over-ruler of opinions, make manifest that
all these are but serving sciences, which, as they have a private
end in themselves, so yet are they all directed to the highest end
of the mistress knowledge, by the Greeks called [Greek text], which
stands, as I think, in the knowledge of a man's self; in the ethic
and politic consideration, with the end of well doing, and not of
well knowing only; even as the saddler's next end is to make a good
saddle, but his farther end to serve a nobler faculty, which is
horsemanship; so the horseman's to soldiery; and the soldier not
only to have the skill, but to perform the practice of a soldier.
So that the ending end of all earthly learning being virtuous
action, those skills that most serve to bring forth that have a most
just title to be princes over all the rest; wherein, if we can show
it rightly, the poet is worthy to have it before any other
competitors. {26}
Among {27} whom principally to challenge it, step forth the moral
philosophers; whom, methinks, I see coming toward me with a sullen
gravity (as though they could not abide vice by daylight), rudely
clothed, for to witness outwardly their contempt of outward things,
with books in their hands against glory, whereto they set their
names; sophistically speaking against subtlety, and angry with any
man in whom they see the foul fault of anger. These men, casting
largesses as they go, of definitions, divisions, and distinctions,
with a scornful interrogative do soberly ask: Whether it be
possible to find any path so ready to lead a man to virtue, as that
which teacheth what virtue is; and teacheth it not only by
delivering forth his very being, his causes and effects; but also by
making known his enemy, vice, which must be destroyed; and his
cumbersome servant, passion, which must be mastered, by showing the
generalities that contain it, and the specialities that are derived
from it; lastly, by plain setting down how it extends itself out of
the limits of a man's own little world, to the government of
families, and maintaining of public societies?
The historian {28} scarcely gives leisure to the moralist to say so
much, but that he (laden with old mouse-eaten records, authorizing
{29} himself, for the most part, upon other histories, whose
greatest authorities are built upon the notable foundation of
hearsay, having much ado to accord differing writers, and to pick
truth out of partiality; better acquainted with a thousand years ago
than with the present age, and yet better knowing how this world
goes than how his own wit runs; curious for antiquities, and
inquisitive of novelties, a wonder to young folks, and a tyrant in
table-talk) denieth, in a great chafe, that any man for teaching of
virtue and virtuous actions, is comparable to him. I am "Testis
temporum, lux veritatis, vita memoriae, magistra vitae, nuncia
vetustatis." {30} The philosopher, saith he, teacheth a disputative
virtue, but I do an active; his virtue is excellent in the
dangerless academy of Plato, but mine showeth forth her honourable
face in the battles of Marathon, Pharsalia, Poictiers, and
Agincourt: he teacheth virtue by certain abstract considerations;
but I only bid you follow the footing of them that have gone before
you: old-aged experience goeth beyond the fine-witted philosopher;
but I give the experience of many ages. Lastly, if he make the song
book, I put the learner's hand to the lute; and if he be the guide,
I am the light. Then would he allege you innumerable examples,
confirming story by stories, how much the wisest senators and
princes have been directed by the credit of history, as Brutus,
Alphonsus of Aragon (and who not? if need be). At length, the long
line of their disputation makes a point in this, that the one giveth
the precept, and the other the example.
Now {31} whom shall we find, since the question standeth for the
highest form in the school of learning, to be moderator? Truly, as
me seemeth, the poet; and if not a moderator, even the man that
ought to carry the title from them both, and much more from all
other serving sciences. Therefore compare we the poet with the
historian, and with the moral philosopher; and if he go beyond them
both, no other human skill can match him; for as for the Divine,
with all reverence, he is ever to be excepted, not only for having
his scope as far beyond any of these, as eternity exceedeth a
moment, but even for passing each of these in themselves; and for
the lawyer, though "Jus" be the daughter of Justice, the chief of
virtues, yet because he seeks to make men good rather "formidine
poenae" than "virtutis amore," or, to say righter, doth not
endeavour to make men good, but that their evil hurt not others,
having no care, so he be a good citizen, how bad a man he be:
therefore, as our wickedness maketh him necessary, and necessity
maketh him honourable, so is he not in the deepest truth to stand in
rank with these, who all endeavour to take naughtiness away, and
plant goodness even in the secretest cabinet of our souls. And
these four are all that any way deal in the consideration of men's
manners, which being the supreme knowledge, they that best breed it
deserve the best commendation.
The philosopher, therefore, and the historian are they which would
win the goal, the one by precept, the other by example; but both,
not having both, do both halt. For the philosopher, setting down
with thorny arguments the bare rule, is so hard of utterance, and so
misty to be conceived, that one that hath no other guide but him
shall wade in him until he be old, before he shall find sufficient
cause to be honest. For his knowledge standeth so upon the abstract
and general, that happy is that man who may understand him, and more
happy that can apply what he doth understand. On the other side the
historian, wanting the precept, is so tied, not to what should be,
but to what is; to the particular truth of things, and not to the
general reason of things; that his example draweth no necessary
consequence, and therefore a less fruitful doctrine.
Now {32} doth the peerless poet perform both; for whatsoever the
philosopher saith should be done, he giveth a perfect picture of it,
by some one by whom he pre-supposeth it was done, so as he coupleth
the general notion with the particular example. A perfect picture,
I say; for he yieldeth to the powers of the mind an image of that
whereof the philosopher bestoweth but a wordish description, which
doth neither strike, pierce, nor possess the sight of the soul, so
much as that other doth. For as, in outward things, to a man that
had never seen an elephant, or a rhinoceros, who should tell him
most exquisitely all their shape, colour, bigness, and particular
marks? or of a gorgeous palace, an architect, who, declaring the
full beauties, might well make the hearer able to repeat, as it
were, by rote, all he had heard, yet should never satisfy his inward
conceit, with being witness to itself of a true living knowledge;
but the same man, as soon as he might see those beasts well painted,
or that house well in model, should straightway grow, without need
of any description, to a judicial comprehending of them; so, no
doubt, the philosopher, with his learned definitions, be it of
virtue or vices, matters of public policy or private government,
replenisheth the memory with many infallible grounds of wisdom,
which, notwithstanding, lie dark before the imaginative and judging
power, if they be not illuminated or figured forth by the speaking
picture of poesy.
...
But now may it be alleged, that if this managing of matters be so
fit for the imagination, then must the historian needs surpass, who
brings you images of true matters, such as, indeed, were done, and
not such as fantastically or falsely may be suggested to have been
done. Truly, Aristotle himself, in his Discourse of Poesy, plainly
determineth this question, saying, that poetry is [Greek text], that
is to say, it is more philosophical and more ingenious than history.
His reason is, because poesy dealeth with [Greek text], that is to
say, with the universal consideration, and the history [Greek text],
the particular. "Now," saith he, "the universal weighs what is fit
to be said or done, either in likelihood or necessity; which the
poesy considereth in his imposed names; and the particular only
marks, whether Alcibiades did, or suffered, this or that:" thus far
Aristotle. {35} Which reason of his, as all his, is most full of
reason. For, indeed, if the question were, whether it were better
to have a particular act truly or falsely set down? there is no
doubt which is to be chosen, no more than whether you had rather
have Vespasian's picture right as he was, or, at the painter's
pleasure, nothing resembling? But if the question be, for your own
use and learning, whether it be better to have it set down as it
should be, or as it was? then, certainly, is more doctrinable the
feigned Cyrus in Xenophon, than the true Cyrus in Justin; {36} and
the feigned AEneas in Virgil, than the right AEneas in Dares
Phrygius; {37} as to a lady that desired to fashion her countenance
to the best grace, a painter should more benefit her, to portrait a
most sweet face, writing Canidia upon it, than to paint Canidia as
she was, who, Horace sweareth, was full ill-favoured. If the poet
do his part aright, he will show you in Tantalus, Atreus, and such
like, nothing that is not to be shunned; in Cyrus, AEneas, Ulysses,
each thing to be followed; where the historian, bound to tell things
as things were, cannot be liberal, without he will be poetical, of a
perfect pattern; but, as in Alexander, or Scipio himself, show
doings, some to be liked, some to be misliked; and then how will you
discern what to follow, but by your own discretion, which you had,
without reading Q. Curtius? {38} And whereas, a man may say, though
in universal consideration of doctrine, the poet prevaileth, yet
that the history, in his saying such a thing was done, doth warrant
a man more in that he shall follow; the answer is manifest: that if
he stand upon that WAS, as if he should argue, because it rained
yesterday therefore it should rain to-day; then, indeed, hath it
some advantage to a gross conceit. But if he know an example only
enforms a conjectured likelihood, and so go by reason, the poet doth
so far exceed him, as he is to frame his example to that which is
most reasonable, be it in warlike, politic, or private matters;
where the historian in his bare WAS hath many times that which we
call fortune to overrule the best wisdom. Many times he must tell
events whereof he can yield no cause; or if he do, it must be
poetically.
...
Since, then, {58} poetry is of all human learnings the most ancient,
and of most fatherly antiquity, as from whence other learnings have
taken their beginnings; since it is so universal that no learned
nation doth despise it, nor barbarous nation is without it; since
both Roman and Greek gave such divine names unto it, the one of
prophesying, the other of making, and that indeed that name of
making is fit for him, considering, that where all other arts retain
themselves within their subject, and receive, as it were, their
being from it, the poet only, only bringeth his own stuff, and doth
not learn a conceit out of a matter, but maketh matter for a
conceit; since neither his description nor end containeth any evil,
the thing described cannot be evil; since his effects be so good as
to teach goodness, and delight the learners of it; since therein
(namely, in moral doctrine, the chief of all knowledges) he doth not
only far pass the historian, but, for instructing, is well nigh
comparable to the philosopher; for moving, leaveth him behind him;
since the Holy Scripture (wherein there is no uncleanness) hath
whole parts in it poetical, and that even our Saviour Christ
vouchsafed to use the flowers of it; since all his kinds are not
only in their united forms, but in their severed dissections fully
commendable; I think, and think I think rightly, the laurel crown
appointed for triumphant captains, doth worthily, of all other
learnings, honour the poet's triumph.
Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)
The Long Love that in my Thought doth Harbour
The longë love that in my thought doth harbour
And in mine hert doth keep his residence,
Into my face presseth with bold pretence
And therein campeth, spreading his banner.
She that me learneth to love and suffer
And will that my trust and lustës negligence
Be rayned by reason, shame, and reverence,
With his hardiness taketh displeasure.
Wherewithall unto the hert's forest he fleeth,
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,
And there him hideth and not appeareth.
What may I do when my master feareth
But in the field with him to live and die?
For good is the life ending faithfully.
Henry Howard, earl of Surrey (1517?-1547)
Love that doth Reign and Live within my Thought
Love that doth reign and live within my thought
And built his seat within my captive breast,
Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,
Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.
But she that taught me love and suffer pain,
My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire
With shamefast look to shadow and refrain,
Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.
And coward Love then to the heart apace
Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and plain
His purpose lost, and dare not show his face.
For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pain;
Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:
Sweet is the death that taketh end by love.
Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586)
Astrophel and Stella I
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show,
That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,-Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,
Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,-I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe;
Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain,
Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow
Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay;
Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows;
And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.
Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
"Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."
Astrophel and Stella III
Let dainty wits cry on the sisters nine,
That, bravely mask'd, their fancies may be told;
Or, Pindar's apes, flaunt they in phrases fine,
Enam'ling with pied flowers their thoughts of gold.
Or else let them in statelier glory shine,
Ennobling newfound tropes with problems old;
Or with strange similes enrich each line,
Of herbs or beasts which Ind or Afric hold.
For me, in sooth, no Muse but one I know;
Phrases and problems from my reach do grow,
And strange things cost too dear for my poor sprites.
How then? even thus: in Stella's face I read
What love and beauty be; then all my deed
But copying is, what in her Nature writes.
Edmund Spenser
Sonnet LI
Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My Love, like the spectator, ydly sits,
Beholding me, that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:
Soone after, when my ioy to sorrow flits,
I waile, and make my woes a tragedy.
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my merth, nor rues my smart:
But when I laugh, she mocks; and when I cry,
She laughs, and hardens evermore her hart.
What then can move her? If nor merth, nor mone,
She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.
Sonnet
Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that your self ye daily such do see:
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more prais'd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fair it be,
Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue:
But only that is permanent and free
From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed:
Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fair, and what he fair hath made,
All other fair, like flowers untimely fade.
THE SONNETS
by William Shakespeare
I
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And tender churl mak'st waste in niggarding:
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
II
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held:
Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.
III
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
Of his self-love to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.
IV
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free:
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone,
Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.
V
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
VI
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thy self to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
VII
Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son.
VIII
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly,
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: 'Thou single wilt prove none.'
IX
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That thou consum'st thy self in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits.
X
For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thy self art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,
That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.
XI
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest,
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
XII
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
XIII
O! that you were your self; but, love you are
No longer yours, than you your self here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.
XIV
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As 'Truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert';
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
'Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.'
XV
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
XVI
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
XVII
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,--in it, and in my rhyme.
XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
XIX
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-liv'd phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.
XX
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all 'hues' in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
XXI
So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare'
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
XXII
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O! therefore love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on th;heart when mine is slain,
Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.
XXIII
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
XXIV
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd,
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
XXV
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am belov'd,
Where I may not remove nor be remov'd.
XXVI
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
XXVII
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear respose for limbs with travel tir'd;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts--from far where I abide-Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel (hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.
XXVIII
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarre'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night and night by day oppress'd,
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's length seem stronger.
XXIX
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,-- and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate,;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
XXX
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
XXXI
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I lov'd, I view in thee,
And thou--all they--hast all the all of me.
XXXII
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.
XXXIII
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
XXXIV
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
XXXV
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,-Thy adverse party is thy advocate,-And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.
XXXVI
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help, by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
XXXVII
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted, to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am suffic'd,
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!
XXXVIII
How can my muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O! give thy self the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thy self dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
XXXIX
O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone.
O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here who doth hence remain.
XL
Take all my loves, my love, yea take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thy self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
And yet, love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.
XLI
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd?
Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:-Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine by thy beauty being false to me.
XLII
That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.
XLIII
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
XLIV
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend, time's leisure with my moan;
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.
XLV
The other two, slight air, and purging fire
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
Until life's composition be recur'd
By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assur'd,
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I send them back again, and straight grow sad.
XLVI
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,-A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes-But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To side this title is impannelled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part:
As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
And my heart's right, thy inward love of heart.
XLVII
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thy self away, art present still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.
XLVIII
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
XLIX
Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand, against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since why to love I can allege no cause.
L
How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
LI
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed n:motion shall I know,
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire, of perfect'st love being made,
Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade,-'Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.'
LII
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key,
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming in that long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope.
LIII
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
LIV
O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses.
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth.
LV
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
LVI
Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpened in his former might:
So, love, be thou, although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
Or call it winter, which being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome, thrice more wished, more rare.
LVII
Being your slave what should I do but tend,
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend;
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
LVIII
That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O! let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilage your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.
LIX
If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which labouring for invention bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child!
O! that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Wh'r we are mended, or wh'r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
O! sure I am the wits of former days,
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
LX
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand.
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
LXI
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
LXII
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed
Beated and chopp'd with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee,--myself,--that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
LXIII
Against my love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.
LXIV
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded, to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate-That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have, that which it fears to lose.
LXV
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
Against the wrackful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O! none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
LXVI
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly--doctor-like--controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
LXVII
Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steel dead seeming of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.
LXVIII
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
LXIX
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues--the voice of souls--give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that in guess they measure by thy deeds;
Then--churls--their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The soil is this, that thou dost common grow.
LXX
That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days
Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd,
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.
LXXI
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O! if,--I say you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
LXXII
O! lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death,--dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O! lest your true love may seem false in this
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
LXXIII
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
LXXIV
But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered,.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.
LXXV
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure:
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had, or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
LXXVI
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O! know sweet love I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.
LXXVII
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look! what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.
LXXVIII
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
LXXIX
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my sick Muse doth give an other place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.
LXXX
O! how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame!
But since your worth--wide as the ocean is,-The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly pride:
Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this,--my love was my decay.
LXXXI
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read;
And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
You still shall live,--such virtue hath my pen,--
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
LXXXII
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devis'd,
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz'd
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;
And their gross painting might be better us'd
Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus'd.
LXXXIII
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
That barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
Than both your poets can in praise devise.
LXXXIV
Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise,--that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
LXXXV
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compil'd,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ''tis so, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
LXXXVI
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.
LXXXVII
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.
LXXXVIII
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side, against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness, being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted;
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.
LXXXIX
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence:
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not love disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against my self I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
XC
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath 'scap'd this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so.
XCI
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretchcd make.
XCII
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
XCIII
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many's looks, the false heart's history
Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange.
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts, or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!
XCIV
They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself, it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
XCV
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose.
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name, blesses an ill report.
O! what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot
And all things turns to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge.
XCVI
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less:
Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated, and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
But do not so; I love thee in such sort,
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
XCVII
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
XCVIII
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
XCIX
The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both,
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet, or colour it had stol'n from thee.
C
Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long,
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
CI
O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd'?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.
CII
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear;
That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming,
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:
Because I would not dull you with my song.
CIII
Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O! blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you when you look in it.
CIV
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.
CV
Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind, and true,' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true,' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.
CVI
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
CVII
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rime,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
CVIII
What's in the brain, that ink may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page;
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
CIX
O! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify,
As easy might I from my self depart
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels, I return again;
Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe though in my nature reign'd,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.
CX
Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
And made my self a motley to the view,
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new;
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
Now all is done, save what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.
CXI
O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdu'd
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me, then, and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink,
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.
CXII
Your love and pity doth the impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
That all the world besides methinks are dead.
CXIII
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night:
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
CXIV
Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy,
To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
O! 'tis the first, 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.
CXV
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas! why fearing of Time's tyranny,
Might I not then say, 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe, then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow?
CXVI
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
CXVII
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchas'd right;
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
CXVIII
Like as, to make our appetite more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge;
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge;
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assur'd,
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur'd;
But thence I learn and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.
CXIX
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is, by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuk'd to my content,
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.
CXX
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time;
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime.
O! that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
CXXI
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
When not to be receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd
Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing:
For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain,
All men are bad and in their badness reign.
CXXII
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date; even to eternity:
Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee
Were to import forgetfulness in me.
CXXIII
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.
CXXIV
If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd,
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
CXXV
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all and more by paying too much rent
For compound sweet; forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No; let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborned informer! a true soul
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy control.
CXXVI
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his fickle hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st.
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
CXXVII
In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
Fairing the foul with Art's false borrowed face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Sland'ring creation with a false esteem:
Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.
CXXXIII
How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
CXXIX
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and till action, lust
Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme;
A bliss in proof,-- and prov'd, a very woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
CXXX
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,-My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
CXXXI
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
CXXXII
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
CXXXIII
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:
Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd:
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
CXXXIV
So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I my self am mortgag'd to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
He learn'd but surety-like to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that putt'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
CXXXV
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus;
More than enough am I that vex'd thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
One will of mine, to make thy large will more.
Let no unkind 'No' fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'
CXXXVI
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will',
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
'Will', will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store's account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov'st me for my name is 'Will.'
CXXXVII
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd,
And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.
CXXXVIII
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.
CXXXIX
O! call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:
Use power with power, and slay me not by art,
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might
Is more than my o'erpress'd defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.
CXL
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so;-As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;-For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee;
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
CXLI
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
CXLII
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profan'd their scarlet ornaments
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example mayst thou be denied!
CXLIII
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind;
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
If thou turn back and my loud crying still.
CXLIV
Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil,
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.
CXLV
Those lips that Love's own hand did make,
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate',
To me that languish'd for her sake:
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was us'd in giving gentle doom;
And taught it thus anew to greet;
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That followed it as gentle day,
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away.
'I hate', from hate away she threw,
And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'.
CXLVI
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
CXLVII
My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
CXLVIII
O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight;
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,
How can it? O! how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.
CXLIX
Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind,;
Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.
CL
O! from what power hast thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O! though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,
More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.
CLI
Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall.
CLII
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing:
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjur'd most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost:
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur'd I,
To swear against the truth so foul a lie.!
CLIII
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love,
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seeting bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure, the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.
CLIV
The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy,
For men diseas'd; but I, my mistress' thrall,
Came there for cure and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
John Donne (1572-1631)
Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
The Good-morrow
I wonder by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we lov'd? Were we not wean'd till then,
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room, an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
The Canonization
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five grey hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace,
Or the King's real, or his stamped face
Contemplate, what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who's injur'd by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?
Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We'are tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the'eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit,
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns all shall approve
Us canoniz'd for love;
And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!"
Love's Alchemy
Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I,
Say, where his centric happiness doth lie;
I have lov'd, and got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery.
Oh, 'tis imposture all!
And as no chemic yet th'elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,
So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.
Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can, if he can
Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
That loving wretch that swears
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,
Which he in her angelic finds,
Would swear as justly that he hears,
In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres.
Hope not for mind in women; at their best
Sweetness and wit, they'are but mummy, possess'd.
The Flea
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;
Thou knowest that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead.
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered, swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, we are met
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and sayest that thou
Find'st not thyself, nor me, the weaker now.
'Tis true, then learn how false fears be;
Just so much honor, when thou yieldst to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.
Ben Jonson (1572-1637)
To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much;
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live
And we have wits to read and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses,
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring AEschylus,
Euripides and Sophocles to us;
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please,
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame,
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born;
And such wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned, and true-filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
Epigrams: On my First Son
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)
To his Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
The Definition of Love
My love is of a birth as rare
As 'tis for object strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair
Upon Impossibility.
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing
Where feeble Hope could ne'er have flown,
But vainly flapp'd its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixt,
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic pow'r depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have plac'd,
(Though love's whole world on us doth wheel)
Not by themselves to be embrac'd;
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear;
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp'd into a planisphere.
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
The Garden
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all flow'rs and all trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men;
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen
So am'rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name;
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race:
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wond'rous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Ensnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find,
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets, and combs its silver wings;
And, till prepar'd for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walk'd without a mate;
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one
To live in paradise alone.
How well the skillful gard'ner drew
Of flow'rs and herbs this dial new,
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs!
John Milton (1608-1674)
Sonnet XIX: When I Consider How my Light is Spent
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
Sonnet XVIII: On the Late Massacre in Piemont
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones;
Forget not: in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubl'd to the hills, and they
To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all th' Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
Sonnet XXIII: Methought I Saw my Late Espoused Saint
Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescu'd from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind;
Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd
So clear as in no face with more delight.
But Oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd,
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.
Paradise Lost: Book I (1674)
THE VERSE.
THE Measure is English Heroic Verse without Rime, as that of Homer in Greek, and of Virgil in Latin; Rime
being no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse, in longer Works especially, but the
Invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter; grac't indeed since by the use of some
famous modern Poets, carried away by Custom, but much to thir own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to
express many things otherwise, and for the most part worse then else they would have exprest them. Not without
cause therefore some both Italian and Spanish Poets of prime note have rejected Rime both in longer and shorter
Works, as have also long since our best English Tragedies, as a thing of it self, to all judicious ears, trivial and
of no true musical delight; which consists onely in apt Numbers, fit quantity of Syllables, and the sense variously
drawn out from one Verse into another, not in the jingling sound of like endings, a fault avoyded by the learned
Ancients both in Poetry and all good Oratory. This neglect then of Rime so little is to be taken for a defect,
though it may seem so perhaps to vulgar Readers, that it rather is to be esteem'd an example set, the first in
English, of ancient liberty recover'd to Heroic Poem from the troublesom and modern bondage of Rimeing.
BOOK I.
THE ARGUMENT.
This first Book proposes, first in brief, the whole Subject, Mans disobedience, and the loss thereupon of
Paradise wherein he was plac't: Then touches the prime cause of his fall, the Serpent, or rather Satan in the
Serpent; who revolting from God, and drawing to his side many Legions of Angels, was by the command of God
driven out of Heaven with all his Crew into the great Deep. Which action past over, the Poem hasts into the
midst of things, presenting Satan with his Angels now fallen into Hell, described here, not in the Center (for
Heaven and Earth may be suppos'd as yet not made, certainly not yet accurst) but in a place of utter darkness,
fitliest call'd Chaos: Here Satan with his Angels lying on the burning Lake, thunder-struck and astonisht, after a
certain space recovers, as from confusion, calls up him who next in Order and Dignity lay by him; they confer of
thir miserable fall. Satan awakens all his Legions, who lay till then in the same manner confounded; They rise,
thir Numbers, array of Battel, thir chief Leaders nam'd, according to the Idols known afterwards in Canaan and
the Countries adjoyning. To these Satan directs his speech, comforts them with hope yet of regaining Heaven,
but tells them lastly of a new World and new kind of Creature to be created, according to an ancient Prophesie
or report in Heaven; for that Angels were long before this visible Creation, was the opinion of many ancient
Fathers. To find out the truth of this Prophesie, and what to determin thereon he refers to a full Councel. What
his Associates thence attempt. Pandemonium the Palace of Satan rises, suddenly built out of the Deep: The
infernal Peers there sit in Councel.
1OF Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
2Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
3Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
4With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
5Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
6Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
7Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
8That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
9In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
10Rose out of Chaos: or if Sion Hill
11Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook that flow'd
12Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
13Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
14That with no middle flight intends to soar
15Above th' Aonian Mount, while it pursues
16Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime.
17And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer
18Before all Temples th' upright heart and pure,
19Instruct me, for Thou know'st; Thou from the first
20Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread
21Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss
22And mad'st it pregnant: What in me is dark
23Illumin, what is low raise and support;
24That to the highth of this great Argument
25I may assert Eternal Providence,
26And justifie the wayes of God to men.
27Say first, for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view
28Nor the deep Tract of Hell, say first what cause
29Mov'd our Grand Parents in that happy State,
30Favour'd of Heav'n so highly, to fall off
31From thir Creator, and transgress his Will
32For one restraint, Lords of the World besides?
33Who first seduc'd them to that foul revolt?
34Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile
35Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv'd
36The Mother of Mankind, what time his Pride
37Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his Host
38Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring
39To set himself in Glory above his Peers,
40He trusted to have equal'd the most High,
41If he oppos'd; and with ambitious aim
42Against the Throne and Monarchy of God
43Rais'd impious War in Heav'n and Battel proud
44With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power
45Hurld headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skie
46With hideous ruine and combustion down
47To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
48In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire,
49Who durst defie th' Omnipotent to Arms.
50Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night
51To mortal men, he with his horrid crew
52Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe
53Confounded though immortal: But his doom
54Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought
55Both of lost happiness and lasting pain
56Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes
57That witness'd huge affliction and dismay
58Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate:
59At once as far as Angels kenn he views
60The dismal Situation waste and wilde,
61A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round
62As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames
63No light, but rather darkness visible
64Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe,
65Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
66And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
67That comes to all; but torture without end
68Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed
69With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd:
70Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd
71For those rebellious, here thir prison ordained
72In utter darkness, and thir portion set
73As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n
74As from the Center thrice to th' utmost Pole.
75O how unlike the place from whence they fell!
76There the companions of his fall, o'rewhelm'd
77With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,
78He soon discerns, and weltring by his side
79One next himself in power, and next in crime,
80Long after known in Palestine, and nam'd
81Beelzebub. To whom th' Arch-Enemy,
82And thence in Heav'n call'd Satan, with bold words
83Breaking the horrid silence thus began.
84If thou beest he; But O how fall'n! how chang'd
85From him, who in the happy Realms of Light
86Cloth'd with transcendent brightness didst out-shine
87Myriads though bright: If he whom mutual league,
88United thoughts and counsels, equal hope
89And hazard in the Glorious Enterprize,
90Joynd with me once, now misery hath joynd
91In equal ruin: into what Pit thou seest
92From what highth fall'n, so much the stronger prov'd
93He with his Thunder: and till then who knew
94The force of those dire Arms? yet not for those,
95Nor what the Potent Victor in his rage
96Can else inflict, do I repent or change,
97Though chang'd in outward lustre; that fixt mind
98And high disdain, from sence of injur'd merit,
99That with the mightiest rais'd me to contend,
100And to the fierce contention brought along
101Innumerable force of Spirits arm'd
102That durst dislike his reign, and me preferring,
103His utmost power with adverse power oppos'd
104In dubious Battel on the Plains of Heav'n,
105And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?
106All is not lost; the unconquerable Will,
107And study of revenge, immortal hate,
108And courage never to submit or yield:
109And what is else not to be overcome?
110That Glory never shall his wrath or might
111Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
112With suppliant knee, and deifie his power,
113Who from the terrour of this Arm so late
114Doubted his Empire, that were low indeed,
115That were an ignominy and shame beneath
116This downfall; since by Fate the strength of Gods
117And this Empyreal substance cannot fail,
118Since through experience of this great event
119In Arms not worse, in foresight much advanc't,
120We may with more successful hope resolve
121To wage by force or guile eternal Warr
122Irreconcileable, to our grand Foe,
123Who now triumphs, and in th' excess of joy
124Sole reigning holds the Tyranny of Heav'n.
125So spake th' Apostate Angel, though in pain,
126Vaunting aloud, but rackt with deep despare:
127And him thus answer'd soon his bold Compeer.
128O Prince, O Chief of many Throned Powers,
129That led th' imbattelld Seraphim to Warr
130Under thy conduct, and in dreadful deeds
131Fearless, endanger'd Heav'ns perpetual King;
132And put to proof his sigh Supremacy,
133Whether upheld by strength, or Chance, or Fate,
134Too well I see and rue the dire event,
135That with sad overthrow and foul defeat
136Hath lost us Heav'n, and all this mighty Host
137In horrible destruction laid thus low,
138As far as Gods and Heav'nly Essences
139Can perish: for the mind and spirit remains
140Invincible, and vigour soon returns,
141Though all our Glory extinct and happy state
142Here swallow'd up in endless misery.
143But what if he our Conquerour, (whom I now
144Of force believe Almighty, since no less
145Then such could hav orepow'rd such force as ours)
146Have left us this our spirit and strength intire
147Strongly to suffer and support our pains,
148That we may so suffice his vengeful ire,
149Or do him mightier service as his thralls
150By right of Warr, what e're his business be
151Here in the heart of Hell to work in Fire,
152Or do his Errands in the gloomy Deep;
153What can it then avail though yet we feel
154Strength undiminisht, or eternal being
155To undergo eternal punishment?
156Whereto with speedy words th' Arch-fiend reply'd.
157Fall'n Cherube, to be weak is miserable
158Doing or Suffering: but of this be sure,
159To do ought good never will be our task,
160But ever to do ill our sole delight,
161As being the contrary to his high will
162Whom we resist. If then his Providence
163Out of our evil seek to bring forth good,
164Our labour must be to pervert that end,
165And out of good still to find means of evil;
166Which oft times may succeed, so as perhaps
167Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb
168His inmost counsels from thir destind aim.
169But see the angry Victor hath recall'd
170His Ministers of vengeance and pursuit
171Back to the Gates of Heav'n: the Sulphurous Hail
172Shot after us in storm, oreblown hath laid
173The fiery Surge, that from the Precipice
174Of Heav'n receiv'd us falling, and the Thunder,
175Wing'd with red Lightning and impetuous rage,
176Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now
177To bellow through the vast and boundless Deep.
178Let us not slip th' occasion, whether scorn,
179Or satiate fury yield it from our Foe.
180Seest thou yon dreary Plain, forlorn and wilde,
181The seat of desolation, voyd of light,
182Save what the glimmering of these livid flames
183Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend
184From off the tossing of these fiery waves,
185There rest, if any rest can harbour there,
186And reassembling our afflicted Powers,
187Consult how we may henceforth most offend
188Our Enemy, our own loss how repair,
189How overcome this dire Calamity,
190What reinforcement we may gain from Hope,
191If not what resolution from despare.
192Thus Satan to his neerest Mate
193With Head up-lift above the wave, and Eyes
194That sparkling blaz'd, his other Parts besides
195Prone on the Flood, extended long and large
196Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge
197As whom the Fables name of monstrous size,
198Titanian, or Earth-born, that warr'd on Jove,
199Briareos or Typhon, whom the Den
200By ancient Tarsus held, or that Sea-beast
201Leviathan, which God of all his works
202Created hugest that swim th' Ocean stream:
203Him haply slumbring on the Norway foam
204The Pilot of some small night-founder'd Skiff,
205Deeming some Island, oft, as Sea-men tell,
206With fixed Anchor in his skaly rind
207Moors by his side under the Lee, while Night
208Invests the Sea, and wished Morn delayes:
209So stretcht out huge in length the Arch-fiend lay
210Chain'd on the burning Lake, nor ever thence
211Had ris'n or heav'd his head, but that the will
212And high permission of all-ruling Heaven
213Left him at large to his own dark designs,
214That with reiterated crimes he might
215Heap on himself damnation, while he sought
216Evil to others, and enrag'd might see
217How all his malice serv'd but to bring forth
218Infinite goodness, grace and mercy shewn
219On Man by him seduc't, but on himself
220Treble confusion, wrath and vengeance pour'd.
221Forthwith upright he rears from off the Pool
222His mighty Stature; on each hand the flames
223Drivn backward slope thir pointing spires, and rowld
224In billows, leave i'th'midst a horrid Vale.
225Then with expanded wings he stears his flight
226Aloft, incumbent on the dusky Air
227That felt unusual weight, till on dry Land
228He lights, as if it were Land that ever burn'd
229With solid, as the Lake with liquid fire;
230And such appear'd in hue, as when the force
231Of subterranean wind transports a Hill
232Torn from Pelorus, or the shatter'd side
233Of thundring Aetna, whose combustible
234And fewel'd entrals thence conceiving Fire,
235Sublim'd with Mineral fury, aid the Winds,
236And leave a singed bottom all involv'd
237With stench and smoak: Such resting found the sole
238Of unblest feet. Him followed his next Mate,
239Both glorying to have scap't the Stygian flood
240As Gods, and by thir own recover'd strength,
241Not by the sufferance of supernal Power.
242Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,
243Said then the lost Arch-Angel, this the seat
244That we must change for Heav'n, this mournful gloom
245For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
246Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid
247What shall be right: fardest from him his best
248Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supream
249Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields
250Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail
251Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
252Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
253A mind not to be chang'd by Place or Time.
254The mind is its own place, and in it self
255Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
256What matter where, if I be still the same,
257And what I should be, all but less then he
258Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
259We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
260Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
261Here we may reign secure, and in my choyce
262To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
263Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.
264But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
265Th' associates and copartners of our loss
266Lye thus astonisht on th' oblivious Pool,
267And call them not to share with us their part
268In this unhappy Mansion, or once more
269With rallied Arms to try what may be yet
270Regaind in Heav'n, or what more lost in Hell?
271So Satan spake, and him Beelzebub
272Thus answer'd. Leader of those Armies bright,
273Which but th' Omnipotent none could have foyld,
274If once they hear that voyce, thir liveliest pledge
275Of hope in fears and dangers, heard so oft
276In worst extreams, and on the perilous edge
277Of battel when it rag'd, in all assaults
278Thir surest signal, they will soon resume
279New courage and revive, though now they lye
280Groveling and prostrate on yon Lake of Fire,
281As we erewhile, astounded and amaz'd,
282No wonder, fall'n such a pernicious highth.
283He scarce had ceas't when the superiour Fiend
284Was moving toward the shoar; his ponderous shield
285Ethereal temper, massy, large and round,
286Behind him cast; the broad circumference
287Hung on his shoulders like the Moon, whose Orb
288Through Optic Glass the Tuscan Artist views
289At Ev'ning from the top of Fesole,
290Or in Valdarno, to descry new Lands,
291Rivers or Mountains in her spotty Globe.
292His Spear, to equal which the tallest Pine
293Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the Mast
294Of some great Ammiral, were but a wand,
295He walkt with to support uneasie steps
296Over the burning Marle, not like those steps
297On Heavens Azure, and the torrid Clime
298Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with Fire;
299Nathless he so endur'd, till on the Beach
300Of that inflamed Sea, he stood and call'd
301His Legions, Angel Forms, who lay intrans't
302Thick as Autumnal Leaves that strow the Brooks
303In Vallombrosa, where th' Etrurian shades
304High overarch't imbowr; or scatterd sedge
305Afloat, when with fierce Winds Orion arm'd
306Hath vext the Red-Sea Coast, whose waves orethrew
307Busirus and his Memphian Chivalry,
308While with perfidious hatred they pursu'd
309The Sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
310From the safe shore thir floating Carkases
311And broken Chariot Wheels, so thick bestrown
312Abject and lost lay these, covering the Flood,
313Under amazement of thir hideous change.
314He call'd so loud, that all the hollow Deep
315Of Hell resounded. Princes, Potentates
316Warriers, the Flowr of Heav'n, once yours, now lost,
317If such astonishment as this can sieze
318Eternal spirits; or have ye chos'n this place
319After the toyl of Battel to repose
320Your wearied vertue, for the ease you find
321To slumber here, as in the Vales of Heav'n?
322Or in this abject posture have ye sworn
323To adore the Conquerour? who now beholds
324Cherube and Seraph rowling in the Flood
325With scatter'd Arms and Ensigns, till anon
326His swift pursuers from Heav'n Gates discern
327Th' advantage, and descending tread us down
328Thus drooping, or with linked Thunderbolts
329Transfix us to the bottom of this Gulfe.
330Awake, arise, or be for ever fall'n.
331They heard, and were abasht, and up they sprung
332Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch
333On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread,
334Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake.
335Nor did they not perceave the evil plight
336In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel;
337Yet to thir Generals Voyce they soon obeyd
338Innumerable. As when the potent Rod
339Of Amrams Son in Egypts evill day
340Wav'd round the Coast, up call'd a pitchy cloud
341Of Locusts, warping on the Eastern Wind,
342That ore the Realm of impious Pharaoh hung
343Like Night, and darken'd all the Land of Nile:
344So numberless were those bad Angels seen
345Hovering on wind under the Cope of Hell
346'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding Fires;
347Till, as a signal giv'n, th' uplifted Spear
348Of thir great Sultan waving to direct
349Thir course, in even ballance down they light
350On the firm brimstone, and fill all the Plain;
351A multitude, like which the populous North
352Pour'd never from her frozen loyns, to pass
353Rhene or the Danaw, when her barbarous Sons
354Came like a Deluge on the South, and spread
355Beneath Gibralter to the Lybian sands.
356Forthwith from every Squadron and each Band
357The Heads and Leaders thither hast where stood
358Thir great Commander; Godlike shapes and forms
359Excelling human, Princely Dignities,
360And Powers that earst in Heaven sat on Thrones;
361Though of thir Names in heav'nly Records now
362Be no memorial blotted out and ras'd
363By thir Rebellion, from the Books of Life.
364Nor had they yet among the Sons of Eve
365Got them new Names, till wandring ore the Earth,
366Through Gods high sufferance for the tryal of man,
367By falsities and lyes the greatest part
368Of Mankind they corrupted to forsake
369God thir Creator, and th' invisible
370Glory of him that made them, to transform
371Oft to the Image of a Brute, adorn'd
372With gay Religions full of Pomp and Gold,
373And Devils to adore for Deities:
374Then were they known to men by various Names,
375And various Idols through the Heathen World.
376Say, Muse, the Names then known, who first, who last,
377Rous'd from the slumber, on that fiery Couch,
378At thir great Emperors call, as next in worth
379Came singly where he stood on the bare strand,
380While the promiscuous croud stood yet aloof?
381The chief were those who from the Pit of Hell
382Roaming to seek thir prey on earth, durst fix
383Thir Seats long after next the Seat of God,
384Thir Altars by his Altar, Gods ador'd
385Among the Nations round, and durst abide
386Jehovah thundring out of Sion, thron'd
387Between the Cherubim; yea, often plac'd
388Within his Sanctuary it self thir Shrines,
389Abominations; and with cursed things
390His holy Rites, and solemn Feasts profan'd,
391And with thir darkness durst affront his light.
392First Moloch, horrid King besmear'd with blood
393Of human sacrifice, and parents tears,
394Though for the noyse of Drums and Timbrels loud
395Thir childrens cries unheard, that past through fire
396To his grim Idol. Him the Ammonite
397Worshipt in Rabba and her watry Plain,
398In Argob and in Basan, to the stream
399Of utmost Arnon. Not content with such
400Audacious neighbourhood, the wisest heart
401Of Solomon he led by fraud to build
402His Temple right against the Temple of God
403On that opprobrious Hill, and made his Grove
404The pleasant Vally of Hinnom, Tophet thence
405And black Gehenna call'd, the Type of Hell.
406Next Chemos, th' obscene dread of Moabs Sons,
407From Aroar to Nebo, and the wild
408Of Southmost Abarim; in Hesebon
409And Heronaim, Seons Realm, beyond
410The flowry Dale of Sibma clad with Vines,
411And Eleale to th' Asphaltick Pool.
412Peor his other Name, when he entic'd
413Israel in Sittim on thir march from Nile
414To do him wanton rites, which cost them woe.
415Yet thence his lustful Orgies he enlarg'd
416Even to that Hill of scandal, but the Grove
417Of Moloch homicide, lust hard by hate;
418Till good Josiah drove them hence to Hell.
419With these cam they, who from the bordring flood
420Of old Euphrates to the Brook that parts
421Egypt from Syrian ground, had general names
422Of Baalim and Ashtaroth, those male,
423These Feminine. For Spirits when they please
424Can either Sex assume, or both; so soft
425And uncompounded is thir Essence pure,
426Nor ti'd or manacl'd with joynt or limb,
427Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,
428Like cumbrous flesh; but in what shape they choose
429Dilated or condens't, bright or obscure,
430Can execute thir aerie purposes,
431And works of love or enmity fulfill.
432For those the Race of Israel oft forsook
433Thir living strength, and unfrequented left
434His righteous Altar, bowing lowly down
435To bestial Gods; for which thir heads as low
436Bow'd down in Battel, sunk before the Spear
437Of despicable foes. With these in troop
438Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians call'd
439Astarte, Queen of Heav'n, with crescent Horns;
440To whose bright Image nightly by the Moon
441Sidonian Virgins paid thir Vows and Songs,
442In Sion also not unsung, where stood
443Her Temple on th' offensive Mountain, built
444By that uxorious King, whose heart though large,
445Beguil'd by fair Idolatresses, fell
446To idols foul. Thammuz came next behind,
447Whose annual wound in Lebanon allur'd
448The Syrian Damsels to lament his fate
449In amorous dittyes all a Summers day,
450While smooth Adonis from his native Rock
451Ran purple to the Sea, suppos'd with blood
452Of Thammuz yearly wounded; the Love-tale
453Infected Sions daughters with like heat,
454Whose wanton passions in the sacred Porch
455Ezekial saw, when by the Vision led
456His eye survay'd the dark Idolatries
457Of alienated Judah. Next came one
458Who mourn'd in earnest, when the Captive Ark
459Maim'd his brute Image, head and hands lopt off
460In his own Temple, on the grunsel edge,
461Where he fell flat, and sham'd his Worshipers:
462Dagon his Name, Sea Monster, upward Man
463And downward Fish: yet had his Temple high
464Rear'd in Azotus, dreaded through the Coast
465Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon
466And Accaron and Gaza's frontier bounds.
467Him follow'd Rimmon, whose delightful Seat
468Was fair Damascus, on the fertil Banks
469Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams.
470He also against the house of God was bold:
471A Leper once he lost and gain'd a King,
472Ahaz his sottish Conquerour, whom he drew
473Gods Altar to disparage and displace
474For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn
475His odious offrings, and adore the Gods
476Whom he had vanquisht. After these appear'd
477A crew who under Names of old Renown,
478Osiris, Isis, Orus and thir Train
479With monstrous shapes and sorceries abus'd
480Fanatic Egypt and her Priests, to seek
481Thir wandring Gods Disguis'd in brutish forms
482Rather then human. Nor did Israel scape
483Th' infection when thir borrow'd Gold compos'd
484The Calf in Oreb: and the Rebel King
485Doubl'd that sin in Bethel and in Dan,
486Lik'ning his Maker to the Grazed Ox,
487Jehovah, who in one Night when he pass'd
488From Egypt marching, equal'd with one stroke
489Both her first born and all her bleating Gods
490Belial came last, then whom a Spirit more lewd
491Fell not from Heaven, or more gross to love
492Vice for it self: To him no Temple stood
493Or Altar smoak'd; yet who more oft then hee
494In Temples and at Altars, when the Priest
495Turns Atheist, as did Ely's Sons, who fill'd
496With lust and violence the house of God.
497In Courts and Palaces he also Reigns
498And in luxurious Cities, where the noyse
499Of riot ascends above thir loftiest Towrs,
500And injury and outrage: And when Night
501Darkens the Streets, then wander forth the Sons
502Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.
503Witness the Streets of Sodom, and that night
504In Gibeah, when the hospitable door
505Expos'd a Matron to avoid worse rape.
506These were the prime in order and in might;
507The rest were long to tell, though far renown'd,
508Th' Ionian Gods, of Javans issue held
509Gods, yet confest later then Heav'n and Earth
510Thir boasted Parents; Tita n Heav'ns first born
511With his enormous brood, and birthright seis'd
512By younger Saturn, he from mightier Jove
513His own and Rhea's Son like measure found;
514So Jove usurping reign'd: these first in Creet
515And Ida known, thence on the Snowy top
516Of cold Olympus rul'd the middle Air
517Thir highest Heav'n; or on the Delphian Cliff,
518Or in Dodona, and through all the bounds
519Of Doric Land; or who with Saturn old
520Fled over Adria to th' Hesperian Fields,
521And ore the Celtic roam'd the utmost Isles.
522All these and more came flocking; but with looks
523Down cast and damp, yet such wherein appear'd
524Obscure some glimps of joy, to have found thir chief
525Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost
526In loss itself; which on his count'nance cast
527Like doubtful hue: but he his wonted pride
528Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore
529Semblance of worth, not substance, gently rais'd
530Thir fanting courage, and dispel'd thir fears.
531Then strait commands that at the warlike sound
532Of Trumpets loud and Clarions be upreard
533His mighty Standard; that proud honour claim'd
534Azazel as his right, a Cherube tall:
535Who forthwith from the glittering Staff unfurld
536Th' Imperial Ensign, which full high advanc't
537Shon like a Meteor streaming to the Wind
538With Gemms and Golden lustre rich imblaz'd,
539Seraphic arms and Trophies: all the while
540Sonorous mettal blowing Martial sounds:
541At which the universal Host upsent
542A shout that tore Hells Concave, and beyond
543Frighted the Reign of Chaos and old Night.
544All in a moment through the gloom were seen
545Ten thousand Banners rise into the Air
546With Orient Colours waving: with them rose
547A Forrest huge of Spears: and thronging Helms
548Appear'd, and serried Shields in thick array
549Of depth immeasurable: Anon they move
550In perfect Phalanx to the Dorian mood
551Of Flutes and soft Recorders; such as rais'd
552To hight of noblest temper Hero's old
553Arming to Battel, and in stead of rage
554Deliberate valour breath'd, firm and unmov'd
555With dread of death to flight or foul retreat,
556Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage
557With solemn touches, troubl'd thoughts, and chase
558Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain
559From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they
560Breathing united force with fixed thought
561Mov'd on in silence to soft Pipes that charm'd
562Thir painful steps o're the burnt soyle; and now
563Advanc't in view, they stand, a horrid Front
564Of dreadful length and dazling Arms, in guise
565Of Warriers old with order'd Spear and Shield,
566Awaiting what command thir mighty Chief
567Had to impose: He through the armed Files
568Darts his experienc't eye, and soon traverse
569The whole Battalion views, thir order due,
570Thir visages and stature as of Gods,
571Thir number last he summs. And now his heart
572Distends with pride, and hardning in his strength
573Glories: For never since created man,
574Met such imbodied force, as nam'd with these
575Could merit more then that small infantry
576Warr'd on by Cranes: though all the Giant brood
577Of Phlegra with th' Heroic Race were joyn'd
578That fought at Theb's and Ilium, on each side
579Mixt with auxiliar Gods; and what resounds
580In Fable or Romance of Uthers Sons
581Begirt with British and Armoric Knights;
582And all who since Baptiz'd or Infidel
583Jousted in Aspramont or Montalban,
584Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebisond
585Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore
586When Charlemain with all his Peerage fell
587By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond
588Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ'd
589Thir dread commander: he above the rest
590In shape and gesture proudly eminent
591Stood like a Towr; his form had yet not lost
592All her Original brightness, nor appear'd
593Less then Arch Angel ruind, and th' excess
594Of Glory obscur'd; As when the Sun new ris'n
595Looks through the Horizontal misty Air
596Shorn of his Beams, or from behind the Moon
597In dim Eclips disastrous twilight sheds
598On half the Nations, and with fear of change
599Perplexes Monarch. Dark'n'd so, yet shon
600Above them all th' Arch Angel; but his face
601Deep scars of Thunder had intrencht, and care
602Sat on his faded cheek, but under Browes
603Of dauntless courage, and considerate Pride
604Waiting revenge: cruel his eye, but cast
605Signs of remorse and passion to behold
606The fellows of his crime, the followers rather
607(Far other once beheld in bliss) condemn'd
608For ever now to have thir lot in pain,
609Millions of Spirits for his fault amerc't
610Of Heav'n, and from Eternal Splendors flung
611For his revolt, yet faithfull how they stood,
612Thir Glory witherd. As when Heavens Fire
613Hath scath'd the Forrest Oaks, or Mountain Pines,
614With singed top thir stately growth though bare
615Stands on the blasted Heath. He now prepar'd
616To speak; whereat thir doubl'd Ranks they bend
617From wing to wing, and half enclose him round
618With all his Peers: attention held them mute.
619Thrice he assayd, and thrice in spight of scorn,
620Tears such as Angels weep, burst forth: at last
621Words interwove with sighs found out thir way.
622O Myriads of immortal Spirits, O Powers
623Matchless, but with th' Almighty, and that strife
624Was not inglorious, though th' event was dire,
625As this place testifies, and this dire change
626Hateful to utter: but what power of mind
627Foreseeing or presaging, from the Depth
628Of knowledge past or present, could have fear'd,
629How such united force of Gods, how such
630As stood like these, could ever know repulse?
631For who can yet beleeve, though after loss,
632That all these puissant Legions, whose exile
633Hath emptied Heav'n, shall fail to re-ascend
634Self-rais'd, and repossess thir native seat?
635For mee be witness all the Host of Heav'n,
636If counsels different, or danger shun'd
637By mee, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns
638Monarch in Heav'n, till then as one secure
639Sat on his Throne, upheld by old repute,
640Consent or custome, and his Regal State
641Put forth at full, but still his strength conceal'd,
642Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall.
643Henceforth his might we know, and know our own
644So as not either to provoke, or dread
645New warr, provok't; our better part remains
646To work in close design, by fraud or guile
647What force effected not: that he no less
648At length from us may find, who overcomes
649By force, hath overcome but half his foe.
650Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife
651There went a fame in Heav'n that he ere long
652Intended to create, and therein plant
653A generation, whom his choice regard
654Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven:
655Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps
656Our first eruption, thither or elsewhere:
657For this Infernal Pit shall never hold
658Caelestial Spirits in Bondage, nor th' Abyss
659Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts
660Full Counsel must mature: Peace is despaird,
661For who can think Submission? Warr then, Warr
662Open or understood must be resolv'd.
663He spake: and to confirm his words, out-flew
664Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs
665Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze
666Far round illumin'd hell: highly they rag'd
667Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped Arms
668Clash'd on thir sounding Shields the din of war,
669Hurling defiance toward the Vault of Heav'n.
670There stood a hill not far whose griesly top
671Belch'd fire and rowling smoak; the rest entire
672Shon with a glossie scurff, undoubted sign
673That in his womb was hid metallic Ore,
674The work of Sulphur. Thither wing'd with speed
675A numerous Brigad hasten'd. As when Bands
676Of Pioners with Spade and Pickax arm'd
677Forerun the Royal Camp, to trench a Field,
678Or cast a Rampart. Mammon led them on,
679Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell
680From heav'n, for ev'n in heav'n his looks and thoughts
681Were always downward bent, admiring more
682The riches of Heav'ns pavement, trod'n Gold,
683Then aught divine or holy else enjoy'd
684In vision beatific: by him first
685Men also, and by his suggestion taught
686Ransack'd the Center, and with impious hands
687Rifl'd the bowels of thir mother Earth
688For Treasures better hid. Soon had his crew
689Op'nd into the Hill a spacious wound
690And dig'd out ribs of Gold. Let none admire
691That riches grow in Hell; that soyle may best
692Deserve the precious bane. And here let those
693Who boast in mortal things, and wond'ring tell
694Of Babel, and the works of Memphian Kings
695Learn how thir greatest Monuments of Fame,
696And Strength and Art are easily out-done
697By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour
698What in an age they with incessant toyle
699And hands innumerable scarce perform.
700Nigh on the Plain in many cells prepar'd
701That underneath had veins of liquid fire
702Sluc'd from the Lake, a second multitude
703With wond'rous Art found out the massie Ore,
704Severing each kind, and scum'd the Bullion dross:
705A third as soon had form'd within the ground
706A various mould, and from the boyling cells
707By strange conveyance fill'd each hollow nook,
708As in an Organ from one blast of wind
709To many a row of Pipes the sound-board breaths.
710Anon out of the earth a Fabrick huge
711Rose like an Exhalation, with the sound
712Of Dulcet Symphonies and voices sweet,
713Built like a Temple, where Pilasters round
714Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid
715With Golden Architrave; nor did there want
716Cornice or Freeze, with bossy Sculptures grav'n,
717The Roof was fretted Gold. Not Babilon,
718Nor great Alcairo such magnificence
719Equal'd in all thir glories, to inshrine
720Belus or Serapis thir Gods, or seat
721Thir Kings, when Aegypt with Assyria strove
722In wealth and luxurie. Th' ascending pile
723Stood fixt her stately highth, and strait the dores
724Op'ning thir brazen foulds discover wide
725Within, her ample spaces, o're the smooth
726And level pavement: from the arched roof
727Pendant by suttle Magic many a row
728Of Starry Lamps and blazing Cressets fed
729With Naphtha and Asphaltus yeilded light
730As from a sky. The hasty multitude
731Admiring enter'd, and the work some praise
732And some the Architect: his hand was known
733In Heav'n by many a Towred structure high,
734Where Scepter'd Angels held thir residence,
735And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King
736Exalted to such power, and gave to rule,
737Each in his Hierarchie, the Orders bright.
738Nor was his name unheard or unador'd
739In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land
740Men call'd him Mulciber; and how he fell
741From Heav'n, they fabl'd, thrown by angry Jove
742Sheer o're the Chrystal Battlements; from Morn
743To Noon he fell, from Noon to dewy Eve,
744A Summers day; and with the setting Sun
745Dropt from the Zenith like a falling Star,
746On Lemnos th' Aegaean Ile: thus they relate,
747Erring; for he with this rebellious rout
748Fell long before; nor aught avail'd him now
749To have built in Heav'n high Towrs; nor did he scape
750By all his Engins, but was headlong sent
751With his industrious crew to build in hell.
752Mean while the winged Haralds by command
753Of Sovran power, with awful Ceremony
754And Trumpets sound throughout the Host proclaim
755A solemn Councel forthwith to be held
756At Pandaemonium, the high Capital
757Of Satan and his Peers: thir summons call'd
758From every Band and squared Regiment
759By place or choice the worthiest; they anon
760With hunderds and with thousands trooping came
761Attended: all access was throng'd, the Gates
762And Porches wide, but chief the spacious Hall
763(Though like a cover'd field, where Champions bold
764Wont ride in arm'd, and at the Soldans chair
765Defi'd the best of Panim chivalry
766To mortal combat or carreer with Lance)
767Thick swarm'd, both on the ground and in the air,
768Brusht with the hiss of russling wings. As Bees
769In spring time, when the Sun with Taurus rides,
770Pour forth thir populous youth about the Hive
771In clusters; they among fresh dews and flowers
772Flie to and fro, or on the smoothed Plank,
773The suburb of thir Straw-built Cittadel,
774New rub'd with Baum, expatiate and confer
775Thir State affairs. So thick the aerie crowd
776Swarm'd and were straitn'd; till the Signal giv'n
777Behold a wonder! they but now who seemd
778In bigness to surpass Earths Giant Sons
779Now less then smallest Dwarfs, in narrow room
780Throng numberless, like that Pigmean Race
781Beyond the Indian Mount, or Faerie Elves,
782Whose midnight Revels, by a Forrest side
783Or Fountain some belated Peasant sees,
784Or dreams he sees, while over-head the Moon
785Sits Arbitress, and neerer to the Earth
786Wheels her pale course, they on thir mirth and dance
787Intent, with jocond Music charm his ear;
788At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.
789Thus incorporeal Spirits to smallest forms
790Reduc'd thir shapes immense, and were at large,
791Though without number still amidst the Hall
792Of that infernal Court. But far within
793And in thir own dimensions like themselves
794The great Seraphic Lords and Cherubim
795In close recess and secret conclave sat
796A thousand Demy-Gods on golden seat's,
797Frequent and full. After short silence then
798And summons read, the great consult began.