[_Enter_ HELEN,
_passing
over the stage between two cupids_.
World's Greatest Books - Volume 17 - Poetry and Drama
The wind of spring is abroad.
The
flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The winds wave their
growing leaves. ' Retire, O sun, the daughter of Colla is asleep! She
will not come forth in her beauty. She will not move in the steps of
her loveliness! "
Such was the song of the bards when they raised the tomb. I, too, sang
over the grave when the king of Morven came to green Erin to fight with
the car-borne Cairbar!
FOOTNOTES:
[W] No ancient or modern work in the history of literature has
excited such wild admiration and such profound contempt as the "Ossian"
of James Macpherson. It was Napoleon's favourite work; he carried it
with him to Egypt and took it to St. Helena. Byron and Goethe and
Chateaubriand were also touched to enthusiasm by it. Its author--or,
as some still think, its editor--was a Scottish schoolmaster, James
Macpherson, born at Ruthven, in Inverness-shire on October 27, 1736.
The first part of the work, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry,
Collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and Translated from the Gaelic,
or Erse, Language," was published in 1760; "Fingal" appeared in 1762,
and "Temora" in the following year. Doctor Johnson said of Macpherson:
"He has found names, and stories, and phrases, nay, passages in old
songs, and with them has blended his own compositions, and so made
what he gives to the world as the translation of an ancient poem"; and
this verdict is now confirmed by the best authorities. Nevertheless,
"Ossian" is a work of considerable merit and great historic interest.
It contains some fine passages of real poetry, such as the invocation
to the sun with which "Carthon" concludes, and it has served to attract
universal attention to the magnificent Celtic traditions of Scotland
and Ireland. Macpherson died in Inverness-shire on February 17, 1796.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE[X]
The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus
_Persons in the Play_
Doctor Faustus
Wagner, _his servant_
Mephistophilis
Lucifer
The Emperor
Benvolio, Martino, Frederick, _gentlemen of the emperor's court_
BRUNO
THE POPE
THREE Scholars, CARDINALS, LORDS, Devils, PHANTOMS,
GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS, _etc_. , CHORUS.
ACT I
SCENE I. --FAUSTUS _in his study, reading a volume on necromancy_.
FAUSTUS: 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 excels in this
Stretches as far as does the mind of man.
A sound magician is a demi-god.
[_Enter_ GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS.
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.
EVIL ANGEL: Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art
Wherein all nature's treasure is contained;
Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,
Lord and commander of these elements.
[_Exeunt_ ANGELS.
FAUSTUS: How am I glutted with conceit of this!
Faustus, begin thine incantations,
And try if devils will obey thy hest.
[_Thunder_. FAUSTUS _pronounces the incantation.
Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do?
FAUSTUS: I charge thee, wait upon me while I live,
To do whatever Faustus shall command.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: I am a servant to great Lucifer,
And may not follow thee without his leave.
FAUSTUS: Tell me, what is that Lucifer, thy lord?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Arch-regent and commander of all
spirits.
FAUSTUS: Was not that Lucifer an angel once?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Yes, Faustus, and most dearly loved of God.
FAUSTUS: How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Oh, by aspiring pride and insolence,
For which God threw him out from the face of heaven.
FAUSTUS: And what are you that live with Lucifer?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,
conspired against our God with Lucifer,
And are forever damned with Lucifer.
FAUSTUS: Where are you damned?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: In hell.
FAUSTUS: How comes it, then, that you are out of hell?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: 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 deprived of everlasting bliss?
FAUSTUS: Go, bear these tidings to great Lucifer:
Seeing Faustus hath incurred eternal death
By desperate thoughts against God's deity, Say
he surrenders up to him his soul,
So he will spare him four-and-twenty years,
Having thee ever to attend on me.
Then meet me in my study at midnight,
And then resolve me of thy master's mind. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II. --_The same. Midnight_. FAUSTUS. _Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS: Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: That I shall wait on Faustus while he lives,
So he will buy my service with his soul,
And write a deed of gift with his own blood.
[FAUSTUS _stabs his own arm, and writes. At the summons
of_ MEPHISTOPHILIS _enter_ DEVILS, _who present_
FAUSTUS _with crowns and rich apparel. Exeunt_
DEVILS. FAUSTUS _reads the deed, by which_ MEPHISTOPHILIS
_is to be at his service for twenty-four years,
at the end of which_ LUCIFER _may claim his soul_.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Now, Faustus, ask me what thou
wilt.
FAUSTUS: Tell me where is the place that men call
hell?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
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 not heaven.
FAUSTUS: I think hell's a fable.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Aye, think so still, till experience
change thy mind. [_Exit_.
FAUSTUS: If heaven was made for man, 'twas made for me.
I will renounce this magic and repent.
[_Enter the_ GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS.
GOOD ANGEL: Faustus, repent! Yet God will pity
thee.
EVIL ANGEL: Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee.
FAUSTUS: My heart is hardened; I cannot repent.
EVIL ANGEL: Too late.
GOOD ANGEL: Never too late, if Faustus will repent.
[_Exeunt_ ANGELS.
FAUSTUS: O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour,
Help to save distressed Faustus' soul.
[_Enter_ LUCIFER.
LUCIFER: Christ cannot save thy soul, for He is just;
Thou call'st on Christ, contrary to thy promise;
Thou shouldst not think on God; think on the Devil.
FAUSTUS: Nor will Faustus henceforth; pardon him for this,
And Faustus vows never to look to Heaven.
ACT II
SCENE I. --_Rome. Enter_ CHORUS.
CHORUS: Learned Faustus,
To find the secrets of astronomy
Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament,
Did mount him up to scale Olympus' top;
Where, sitting in a chariot burning bright,
Drawn by the strength of yoked dragons' necks,
He views the clouds, the planets, and the stars.
From east to west his dragons swiftly glide,
And in eight days did bring him home again.
Now, mounted new upon a dragon's back,
He, 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 solemnised.
[_Exit. Enter_ FAUSTUS _and_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS: Hast thou, as erst I did command,
Conducted me within the walls of Rome?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: This is the goodly palace of the
Pope.
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.
Now in this show let me an actor be,
That this proud Pope may Faustus' cunning see.
[_Enter_ POPE _and others in procession_; BRUNO,
_nominated pope in opposition by the_ EMPEROR, _in chains_.
FAUSTUS _and_ MEPHISTOPHILIS, _impersonating two
cardinals, are given charge of the condemned_
BRUNO, _whom they liberate and dispatch magically
to the_ EMPEROR. _Subsequently, both being rendered
invisible, they amuse themselves at the expense of
the_ POPE _and his guests at a banquet; and then depart
to the_ EMPEROR'S _court_.
SCENE II. --_Before the_ EMPEROR'S _palace_. BENVOLIO _at a
window. Enter the_ EMPEROR _with his train, including_
FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, BRUNO.
EMPEROR: Wonder of men, renowned magician,
Thrice-learned Faustus, welcome to our court.
Now, 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.
FAUSTUS: Your majesty shall see them presently.
BENVOLIO: Aye, aye, and thou bring Alexander and
his paramour before the emperor, I'll be Actaeon
and turn myself to a stag.
FAUSTUS: And I'll be Diana and send you the horns
presently.
[_Enter a pageant of Darius, Alexander, etc. , being
phantoms. Exeunt_.
FAUSTUS: See, see, my gracious lord!
EMPEROR: Oh, wondrous sight!
Two spreading horns, most strangely fastened
Upon the head of young Benvolio!
BENVOLIO: Zounds, doctor, this is your villainy.
FAUSTUS: Oh, say not so, sir; the doctor has no skill
To bring before the royal emperor
The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander.
If Faustus do it, you are straight resolved
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--
Ho, Belimoth, Argison, Asteroth!
BENVOLIO: Hold, hold! Good my lord, entreat for me!
'Sblood, I am never able to endure these torments.
EMPEROR: Let me entreat you to remove his horns;
He hath done penance now sufficiently.
FAUSTUS: Being that to delight your majesty with
mirth is all that I desire, I am content to remove
his horns (Mephistophilis _removes them_), and
hereafter, sir, look you speak well of scholars.
SCENE III. --_A wood_. BENVOLIO, MARTINO _and_ FREDERICK.
MARTINO: Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway thy thoughts
From this attempt against the conjurer.
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 graced with horns to-day? "
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 infamy.
FREDERICK: Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may,
And kill that doctor, if he comes this way.
Close, close! The conjurer is at hand,
And all alone comes walking in his gown.
Be ready, then, and strike the peasant down.
BENVOLIO: Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home!
For horns he gave, I'll have his head anon!
[_Enter_ FAUSTUS.
No words; this blow ends all.
Hell take his soul! His body thus must fall.
[BENVOLIO _stabs_ FAUSTUS, _who falls_; BENVOLIO _cuts
off his head_.
FREDERICK: Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown
Made the grim monarchs of infernal spirits
Tremble and quake at his commanding charms?
MARTINO: Was this that damned head, whose art conspired
Benvolio's shame before the emperor?
BENVOLIO: Aye, that's the head, and there the body lies.
Justly rewarded for his villainies. [Faustus _rises_.
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,
Aye, all your hearts, to recompense this deed.
Then, 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 the woods,
Amongst the pricking thorns and sharpest briars;
Whilst with my gentle Mephistophilis
This traitor flies unto some steepy rock
That rolling down may break the villain's bones.
Fly hence! Dispatch my charge immediately!
FREDERICK: He must needs go, that the devil drives.
[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with their victims_.
FOOTNOTES:
[X]: Christopher Marlowe was born at Canterbury in February,
1564, the year of Shakespeare's birth. From the King's School he went
to Cambridge, at Corpus, and took his degree in 1583. For the next ten
years, he lived in London; a tavern brawl ended his career on June 1,
1593. During those ten years, when Greene and Nashe and Peele were
beginning to shape the nascent drama, and Shakespeare was serving his
apprenticeship, most of the young authors were living wild enough
lives, and none, according to tradition, wilder than Kit Marlowe;
who, nevertheless, was doing mightier work, work more pregnant with
promise than any of them, and infinitely greater in achievement; for
Shakespeare's tragedies were still to come. That "Tamburlaine the
Great," the first play of a lad of twenty-three, should have been crude
and bombastic is not surprising; that "The Tragical History of Dr.
Faustus" should have been produced by an author aged probably less than
twenty-five is amazing. The story is traditional; two hundred years
after Marlowe, Goethe gave it its most familiar setting (see Vol. XVI,
p. 362). But although some part of Marlowe's play is grotesque, there
is no epithet which can fitly characterise its greatest scenes except
"tremendous. " What may not that tavern brawl have cost the world!
ACT III
SCENE I. --FAUSTUS' _study. Enter_ WAGNER.
WAGNER: I think my master means to die shortly.
He has made his will, and given me his wealth, his
house, his goods, 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 cheer as
Wagner in his life ne'er saw the like. Here he comes;
belike the feast is ended.
[_Exit. Enter_ FAUSTUS; MEPHISTOPHILIS _follows_.
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?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord!
Revolt, or I'll in piecemeal tear thy flesh!
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.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned heart,
Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift.
FAUSTUS: One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee:
Bring that fair Helen, whose admired worth
Made Greece with ten years' war afflict poor Troy;
Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow,
And keep my oath I made to Lucifer.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: This, or what else my Faustus may desire,
Shall be performed in twinkling of an eye.
[_Enter_ HELEN, _passing over the stage between two cupids_.
FAUSTUS: Was this the face that launched 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!
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars:
Brighter art thou than naming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless Semele:
More lovely than the monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azured arms!
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
SCENE II. --_The same_. FAUSTUS. _Enter_ SCHOLARS.
FIRST SCHOLAR: Worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are changed!
FAUSTUS: Oh, gentlemen!
SECOND SCHOLAR: What ails Faustus?
FAUSTUS: Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived
with thee, then I had 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?
THIRD SCHOLAR: 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear nothing.
FAUSTUS: A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both
body and soul.
SECOND SCHOLAR: Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven, and
remember mercy is infinite.
FAUSTUS: But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned;
the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but
not Faustus. He must remain in hell for ever; hell, Oh,
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! Oh, he stays
my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they
hold 'em, they hold 'em!
SCHOLARS: Who, Faustus?
FAUSTUS: Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen,
I gave them my soul for my cunning!
SECOND SCHOLAR: Oh, 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.
FIRST SCHOLAR: Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let
us into the next room and pray for him.
FAUSTUS: Aye, 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 on thee.
FAUSTUS: Gentlemen, farewell. If I live till morning,
I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.
SCHOLARS: Faustus, farewell!
[_Exeunt_ SCHOLARS. _The clock strikes eleven_.
FAUSTUS: Oh, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair nature's eyes, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
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.
Oh, I'll leap up to heaven: who pulls me down?
See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;
Yet will I call on Him. Oh, spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'Tis gone.
And see, a threatening arm, an 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! Oh, no, it will not harbour me.
Yon stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That when you 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_.
Oh, half the hour is past; 'twill all be past anon.
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pains;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved!
No end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul,
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Oh, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast! All beasts are happy,
For when they die
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live still, and be plagued in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath deprived 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 changed into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
[_Thunder. Enter_ DEVILS.
Oh, mercy, Heaven! Look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books. O Mephistophilis!
[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with_ FAUSTUS. _Enter_ CHORUS.
CHORUS: Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned 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 practice more than heavenly power permits.
MARTIAL[Y]
Epigrams, Epitaphs and Poems
_I. --Satiric Pieces and Epigrams_
He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it--
Post-obits rarely reach a poet. --_Byron_.
MARTIAL ON HIS WORK
Some things are good, some fair, but more you'll say
Are bad herein--all books are made that way!
FOOTNOTES:
[Y] Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis) was born at Bilbilis,
in Spain, about 40 A. D. He went to Rome when twenty-four, and by
attaching himself to the influential family of his fellow Spaniards,
Seneca and Lucan, won his first introduction to Roman society. The
earliest of his books which we possess celebrates the games associated
with the dedication of the Flavian amphitheatre, the Colosseum,
by Titus, in 80 A. D. Most of his other books belong to the reign
of Domitian, to whom he cringed with fulsome adulation. After a
residence in Rome during thirty-four years, he returned to Spain. He
died probably soon after 102 A. D. Martial's importance to literature
rests chiefly on two facts. He made a permanent impress upon the
epigram by his gift of concise and vigorous utterance, culminating
in a characteristically sharp sting; and he left in his verses, even
where they are coarsest, an extraordinarily graphic index to the
pleasure-loving and often corrupt society of his day. Martial had no
deep seriousness of outlook upon life; yet he had better things in
him than flippancy. He wearied of his long career of attendance upon
patrons who requited him but shabbily; and with considerable taste
for rural scenery, he longed for a more open-air existence than was
attainable in Rome. Where he best exhibited genuine feeling was in his
laments for the dead and his affection for friends. With the exception
of the introductory piece from Byron, the verse translations here are
by Professor Wight Duff.
ON FREEDOM OF LANGUAGE
Strict censure may this harmless sport endure:
My page is wanton, but my life is pure.
THE AIM OF THE EPIGRAMS
My satire knoweth how to keep due bounds:
Sparing the sinner, 'tis the sin it rounds.
ON A SPENDTHRIFT
Castor on buying doth a fortune spend:
Castor will take to selling in the end!
TO A RECITER WHO BAWLED
Why wrap your throat with wool before you read?
_Our_ ears stand rather of the wool in need!
TO AN APOLOGETIC RECITER
Before you start your recitation,
You say your throat is sore:
Dear sir, we hear your explanation,
We don't want any more!
ANSWER TO A POETASTER
Pompilianus asks why I omit
To send him all the poetry that is mine;
The reason is that in return for it,
Pompilianus, thou might'st send me _thine_.
ON A PLAGIARIST
Paul buys up poems, and to your surprise,
Paul then recites them as his own:
And Paul is right; for what a person buys
Is his, as can by law be shown!
A LOVER OF OLD-FASHIONED POETRY
Vacerra likes no bards but those of old--
Only the poets dead are poets true!
Really, Vacerra--may I make so bold? --
It's not worth dying to be liked by _you_.
A GOOD RIDDANCE
Linus, you mock my distant farm,
And ask what good it is to me?
Well, it has got at least one charm--
When there, from Linus I am free!
HOW A WET SEASON HELPS THE ADULTERATION OF WINE
Not everywhere the vintage yield has failed,
Dear Ovid; copious rain has much availed.
Coranus has a hundred gallons good
For sale--_well watered_, be it understood.
THE SYSTEMATIC DINER-OUT
Philo declares he never dines at home,
And that is no exaggeration:
He has no place to dine in Rome,
If he can't hook an invitation.
THE LEGACY-HUNTER CONSIDERS A MARRIAGE _de Convenance_
Paula would like to marry me;
But I have no desire to get her.
Paula is old; if only she
Were nearer dead, I'd like it better!
WIDOWER AND WIDOW
Fabius buries all his wives:
Chrestilla ends her husbands' lives.
The torch which from the marriage-bed
They brandish soon attends the dead.
O Venus, link this conquering pair!
Their match will meet with issue fair,
Whereby for such a dangerous _two_
A single funeral will do!
THE IMPORTUNATE BEGGAR
'Tis best to grant me, Cinna, what I crave;
And next best, Cinna, is refusal straight.
Givers I like: refusal I can brave;
But you don't give--you only hesitate!
TO A FRIEND OVER-CAUTIOUS IN LENDING
A loan without security
You say you have not got for me;
But if I pledge my bit of land,
You have the money close at hand.
Thus, though you cannot trust your friend,
To cabbages and trees you lend.
Now _you_ have to be tried in court--
Get from my bit of land support!
Exiled, you'd like a comrade true--
Well, take my land abroad with you!
AN OLD DANDY
You wish, Laetinus, to be thought a youth,
And so you dye your hair.
You're suddenly a crow, forsooth:
Of late a swan you were!
You can't cheat all: there is a Lady dread
Who knows your hair is grey:
Proserpina will pounce upon your head,
And tear the mask away.
PATIENT AND DOCTOR
When I was ill you came to me,
Doctor, and with great urgency
A hundred students brought with you
A most instructive case to view.
The hundred fingered me with hands
Chilled by the blasts from northern lands;
Fever at outset had I none;
I have it, sir, now you have done!
APING ONE'S BETTERS
Torquatus owns a mansion sumptuous
Exactly four miles out of Rome:
Four miles out also Otacilius
Purchased a little country home.
Torquatus built with marble finely veined
His Turkish baths--a princely suite:
Then Otacilius at once obtained
Some kind of kettle to give heat!
Torquatus next laid out upon his ground
A noble laurel-tree plantation:
The other sowed a hundred chestnuts round--
To please a future generation.
And when Torquatus held the Consulate,
The other was a village mayor,
By local honours made as much elate
As if all Rome were in his care!
The fable saith that once upon a day
The frog that aped the ox did burst:
I fancy ere this rival gets his way,
He will explode with envy first!
_II. --Epitaphs_
ON A DEAD SLAVE-BOY
Dear Alcimus, Death robbed thy lord of thee
When young, and lightly now Labian soil
Veils thee in turf: take for thy tomb to be
No tottering mass of Parian stone which toil
Vainly erects to moulder o'er the dead.
Rather let pliant box thy grave entwine;
Let the vine-tendril grateful shadow shed
O'er the green grass bedewed with tears of mine.
Sweet youth, accept the tokens of my grief:
Here doth my tribute last as long as time.
When Lachesis my final thread shall weave,
I crave such plants above my bones may climb.
ON A LITTLE GIRL, EROTION
Mother Flaccilla, Fronto sire that's gone,
This darling pet of mine, Erotion,
I pray ye greet, that nor the Land of Shade
Nor Hell-hound's maw shall fright my little maid.
Full six chill winters would the child have seen
Had her life only six days longer been.
Sweet child, with our lost friends to guard thee, play,
And lisp my name in thine own prattling way.
Soft be the turf that shrouds her! Tenderly
Rest on her, earth, for she trod light on thee.
_III. --Poems on Friendship and Life_
A WORTHY FRIEND
If there be one to rank with those few friends
Whom antique faith and age-long fame attends;
If, steeped in Latin or Athenian lore,
There be a good man truthful at the core;
If one who guards the right and loves the fair,
Who could not utter an unworthy prayer;
If one whose prop is magnanimity,
I swear, my Decianus, thou art he.
A RETROSPECT
Good comrades, Julius, have we been,
And four-and-thirty harvests seen:
We have had sweetness mixed with sour;
Yet oftener came the happy hour.
If for each day a pebble stood,
And either black or white were hued,
Then, ranged in masses separate,
The brighter ones would dominate.
If thou wouldst shun some heartaches sore,
And ward off gloom that gnaws thy core,
Grapple none closely to thy heart:
If less thy joy, then less thy smart.
GIFTS TO FRIENDS ARE NOT LOST
A cunning thief may rob your money-chest,
And cruel fire lay low an ancient home;
Debtors may keep both loan and interest;
Good seed may fruitless rot in barren loam.
A guileful mistress may your agent cheat,
And waves engulf your laden argosies;
But boons to friends can fortune's slings defeat:
The wealth you give away will never cease.
ON MAKING THE BEST OF LIFE
Julius, in friendship's scroll surpassed by none,
If life-long faith and ancient ties may count,
Nigh sixty consulates by thee have gone:
The days thou hast to live make small amount.
Defer not joys them mayst not win from fate
Judge only what is past to be thine own.
Cares with a linked chain of sorrows wait.
Mirth tarries not; but soon on wing is flown.
With both hands hold it--clasped in full embrace,
Still from thy breast it oft will glide away!
To say, "I mean to live," is folly's place:
To-morrow's life comes late; live, then, to-day.
A DAY IN ROME
(First Century A. D. )
The first two hours Rome spends on morning calls,
And with the third the busy lawyer bawls.
Into the fifth the town plies varied tasks;
The sixth, siesta; next hour closing asks.
The eighth sees bath and oil and exercise;
The ninth brings guest on dining-couch who lies.
The tenth is claimed for Martial's poetry,
When you, my friend, contrive high luxury
To please great Caesar, and fine nectar warms
The mighty hand that knows a wine-cup's charms.
Eve is the time for jest: with step so bold
My muse dare not at morn great Jove behold.
BOREDOM, VERSUS ENJOYMENT
If you and I, dear Martial, might
Enjoy our days in Care's despite,
And could control each leisure hour,
Both free to cull life's real flower,
Then should we never know the halls
Of patrons or law's wearying calls,
Or troublous court or family pride;
But we should chat or read or ride,
Play games or stroll in porch or shade,
Visit the hot baths or "The Maid. "
Such haunts should know us constantly,
Such should engage our energy.
Now neither lives his life, but he
Marks precious days that pass and flee.
These days are lost, but their amount
Is surely set to our account.
Knowledge the clue to life can give;
Then wherefore hesitate to live?
THE HAPPY LIFE
The things that make a life of ease,
Dear Martial, are such things as these:
Wealth furnished not by work but birth,
A grateful farm, a blazing hearth,
No lawsuit, seldom formal dress;
But leisure, stalwart healthiness,
A tactful candour, equal friends,
Glad guests at board which naught pretends,
No drunken nights, but sorrow free,
A bed of joy yet chastity;
Sleep that makes darkness fly apace,
So well content with destined place,
Unenvious so as not to fear
Your final day, nor wish it near.
AT THE SEASIDE
Sweet strand of genial Formiae,
Apollinaris loves to flee
From troublous thought in serious Rome,
And finds thee better than a home.
Here Thetis' face is ruffled by
A gentle wind; the waters lie
Not in dead calm, but o'er the main
A peaceful liveliness doth reign,
Bearing gay yachts before a breeze
Cool as the air that floats with ease
From purple fan of damozel
Who would the summer heat dispel.
The angler need not far away
Seek in deep water for his prey--
Your line from bed or sofa throw,
And watch the captured fish below!
How seldom, Rome, dost thou permit
Us by such joys to benefit?
How many days can one long year
Credit with wealth of Formian cheer?
We, round whom city worries swarm,
Envy our lacqueys on a farm.
Luck to you, happy slaves, affords
The joys designed to please your lords!
THE POET'S FINAL RETREAT IN SPAIN
Mayhap, my Juvenal, your feet
Stray down some noisy Roman street,
While after many years of Rome
I have regained my Spanish home.
Bilbilis, rich in steel and gold,
Makes me a rustic as of old.
With easy-going toil at will
Estates of uncouth name I till.
Outrageous lengths of sleep I take,
And oft refuse at nine to wake.
I pay myself nor more nor less
For thirty years of wakefulness!
No fine clothes here--but battered dress,
The first that comes, snatched from a press!
flowers shake their heads on the green hills. The winds wave their
growing leaves. ' Retire, O sun, the daughter of Colla is asleep! She
will not come forth in her beauty. She will not move in the steps of
her loveliness! "
Such was the song of the bards when they raised the tomb. I, too, sang
over the grave when the king of Morven came to green Erin to fight with
the car-borne Cairbar!
FOOTNOTES:
[W] No ancient or modern work in the history of literature has
excited such wild admiration and such profound contempt as the "Ossian"
of James Macpherson. It was Napoleon's favourite work; he carried it
with him to Egypt and took it to St. Helena. Byron and Goethe and
Chateaubriand were also touched to enthusiasm by it. Its author--or,
as some still think, its editor--was a Scottish schoolmaster, James
Macpherson, born at Ruthven, in Inverness-shire on October 27, 1736.
The first part of the work, entitled "Fragments of Ancient Poetry,
Collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and Translated from the Gaelic,
or Erse, Language," was published in 1760; "Fingal" appeared in 1762,
and "Temora" in the following year. Doctor Johnson said of Macpherson:
"He has found names, and stories, and phrases, nay, passages in old
songs, and with them has blended his own compositions, and so made
what he gives to the world as the translation of an ancient poem"; and
this verdict is now confirmed by the best authorities. Nevertheless,
"Ossian" is a work of considerable merit and great historic interest.
It contains some fine passages of real poetry, such as the invocation
to the sun with which "Carthon" concludes, and it has served to attract
universal attention to the magnificent Celtic traditions of Scotland
and Ireland. Macpherson died in Inverness-shire on February 17, 1796.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE[X]
The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus
_Persons in the Play_
Doctor Faustus
Wagner, _his servant_
Mephistophilis
Lucifer
The Emperor
Benvolio, Martino, Frederick, _gentlemen of the emperor's court_
BRUNO
THE POPE
THREE Scholars, CARDINALS, LORDS, Devils, PHANTOMS,
GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS, _etc_. , CHORUS.
ACT I
SCENE I. --FAUSTUS _in his study, reading a volume on necromancy_.
FAUSTUS: 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 excels in this
Stretches as far as does the mind of man.
A sound magician is a demi-god.
[_Enter_ GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS.
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.
EVIL ANGEL: Go forward, Faustus, in that famous art
Wherein all nature's treasure is contained;
Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,
Lord and commander of these elements.
[_Exeunt_ ANGELS.
FAUSTUS: How am I glutted with conceit of this!
Faustus, begin thine incantations,
And try if devils will obey thy hest.
[_Thunder_. FAUSTUS _pronounces the incantation.
Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Now, Faustus, what wouldst thou have me do?
FAUSTUS: I charge thee, wait upon me while I live,
To do whatever Faustus shall command.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: I am a servant to great Lucifer,
And may not follow thee without his leave.
FAUSTUS: Tell me, what is that Lucifer, thy lord?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Arch-regent and commander of all
spirits.
FAUSTUS: Was not that Lucifer an angel once?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Yes, Faustus, and most dearly loved of God.
FAUSTUS: How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Oh, by aspiring pride and insolence,
For which God threw him out from the face of heaven.
FAUSTUS: And what are you that live with Lucifer?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,
conspired against our God with Lucifer,
And are forever damned with Lucifer.
FAUSTUS: Where are you damned?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: In hell.
FAUSTUS: How comes it, then, that you are out of hell?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: 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 deprived of everlasting bliss?
FAUSTUS: Go, bear these tidings to great Lucifer:
Seeing Faustus hath incurred eternal death
By desperate thoughts against God's deity, Say
he surrenders up to him his soul,
So he will spare him four-and-twenty years,
Having thee ever to attend on me.
Then meet me in my study at midnight,
And then resolve me of thy master's mind. [_Exeunt_.
SCENE II. --_The same. Midnight_. FAUSTUS. _Enter_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS: Now tell me what saith Lucifer, thy lord?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: That I shall wait on Faustus while he lives,
So he will buy my service with his soul,
And write a deed of gift with his own blood.
[FAUSTUS _stabs his own arm, and writes. At the summons
of_ MEPHISTOPHILIS _enter_ DEVILS, _who present_
FAUSTUS _with crowns and rich apparel. Exeunt_
DEVILS. FAUSTUS _reads the deed, by which_ MEPHISTOPHILIS
_is to be at his service for twenty-four years,
at the end of which_ LUCIFER _may claim his soul_.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Now, Faustus, ask me what thou
wilt.
FAUSTUS: Tell me where is the place that men call
hell?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
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 not heaven.
FAUSTUS: I think hell's a fable.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Aye, think so still, till experience
change thy mind. [_Exit_.
FAUSTUS: If heaven was made for man, 'twas made for me.
I will renounce this magic and repent.
[_Enter the_ GOOD _and_ EVIL ANGELS.
GOOD ANGEL: Faustus, repent! Yet God will pity
thee.
EVIL ANGEL: Thou art a spirit; God cannot pity thee.
FAUSTUS: My heart is hardened; I cannot repent.
EVIL ANGEL: Too late.
GOOD ANGEL: Never too late, if Faustus will repent.
[_Exeunt_ ANGELS.
FAUSTUS: O Christ, my Saviour, my Saviour,
Help to save distressed Faustus' soul.
[_Enter_ LUCIFER.
LUCIFER: Christ cannot save thy soul, for He is just;
Thou call'st on Christ, contrary to thy promise;
Thou shouldst not think on God; think on the Devil.
FAUSTUS: Nor will Faustus henceforth; pardon him for this,
And Faustus vows never to look to Heaven.
ACT II
SCENE I. --_Rome. Enter_ CHORUS.
CHORUS: Learned Faustus,
To find the secrets of astronomy
Graven in the book of Jove's high firmament,
Did mount him up to scale Olympus' top;
Where, sitting in a chariot burning bright,
Drawn by the strength of yoked dragons' necks,
He views the clouds, the planets, and the stars.
From east to west his dragons swiftly glide,
And in eight days did bring him home again.
Now, mounted new upon a dragon's back,
He, 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 solemnised.
[_Exit. Enter_ FAUSTUS _and_ MEPHISTOPHILIS.
FAUSTUS: Hast thou, as erst I did command,
Conducted me within the walls of Rome?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: This is the goodly palace of the
Pope.
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.
Now in this show let me an actor be,
That this proud Pope may Faustus' cunning see.
[_Enter_ POPE _and others in procession_; BRUNO,
_nominated pope in opposition by the_ EMPEROR, _in chains_.
FAUSTUS _and_ MEPHISTOPHILIS, _impersonating two
cardinals, are given charge of the condemned_
BRUNO, _whom they liberate and dispatch magically
to the_ EMPEROR. _Subsequently, both being rendered
invisible, they amuse themselves at the expense of
the_ POPE _and his guests at a banquet; and then depart
to the_ EMPEROR'S _court_.
SCENE II. --_Before the_ EMPEROR'S _palace_. BENVOLIO _at a
window. Enter the_ EMPEROR _with his train, including_
FAUSTUS, MEPHISTOPHILIS, BRUNO.
EMPEROR: Wonder of men, renowned magician,
Thrice-learned Faustus, welcome to our court.
Now, 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.
FAUSTUS: Your majesty shall see them presently.
BENVOLIO: Aye, aye, and thou bring Alexander and
his paramour before the emperor, I'll be Actaeon
and turn myself to a stag.
FAUSTUS: And I'll be Diana and send you the horns
presently.
[_Enter a pageant of Darius, Alexander, etc. , being
phantoms. Exeunt_.
FAUSTUS: See, see, my gracious lord!
EMPEROR: Oh, wondrous sight!
Two spreading horns, most strangely fastened
Upon the head of young Benvolio!
BENVOLIO: Zounds, doctor, this is your villainy.
FAUSTUS: Oh, say not so, sir; the doctor has no skill
To bring before the royal emperor
The mighty monarch, warlike Alexander.
If Faustus do it, you are straight resolved
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--
Ho, Belimoth, Argison, Asteroth!
BENVOLIO: Hold, hold! Good my lord, entreat for me!
'Sblood, I am never able to endure these torments.
EMPEROR: Let me entreat you to remove his horns;
He hath done penance now sufficiently.
FAUSTUS: Being that to delight your majesty with
mirth is all that I desire, I am content to remove
his horns (Mephistophilis _removes them_), and
hereafter, sir, look you speak well of scholars.
SCENE III. --_A wood_. BENVOLIO, MARTINO _and_ FREDERICK.
MARTINO: Nay, sweet Benvolio, let us sway thy thoughts
From this attempt against the conjurer.
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 graced with horns to-day? "
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 infamy.
FREDERICK: Nay, we will stay with thee, betide what may,
And kill that doctor, if he comes this way.
Close, close! The conjurer is at hand,
And all alone comes walking in his gown.
Be ready, then, and strike the peasant down.
BENVOLIO: Mine be that honour, then. Now, sword, strike home!
For horns he gave, I'll have his head anon!
[_Enter_ FAUSTUS.
No words; this blow ends all.
Hell take his soul! His body thus must fall.
[BENVOLIO _stabs_ FAUSTUS, _who falls_; BENVOLIO _cuts
off his head_.
FREDERICK: Was this that stern aspect, that awful frown
Made the grim monarchs of infernal spirits
Tremble and quake at his commanding charms?
MARTINO: Was this that damned head, whose art conspired
Benvolio's shame before the emperor?
BENVOLIO: Aye, that's the head, and there the body lies.
Justly rewarded for his villainies. [Faustus _rises_.
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,
Aye, all your hearts, to recompense this deed.
Then, 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 the woods,
Amongst the pricking thorns and sharpest briars;
Whilst with my gentle Mephistophilis
This traitor flies unto some steepy rock
That rolling down may break the villain's bones.
Fly hence! Dispatch my charge immediately!
FREDERICK: He must needs go, that the devil drives.
[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with their victims_.
FOOTNOTES:
[X]: Christopher Marlowe was born at Canterbury in February,
1564, the year of Shakespeare's birth. From the King's School he went
to Cambridge, at Corpus, and took his degree in 1583. For the next ten
years, he lived in London; a tavern brawl ended his career on June 1,
1593. During those ten years, when Greene and Nashe and Peele were
beginning to shape the nascent drama, and Shakespeare was serving his
apprenticeship, most of the young authors were living wild enough
lives, and none, according to tradition, wilder than Kit Marlowe;
who, nevertheless, was doing mightier work, work more pregnant with
promise than any of them, and infinitely greater in achievement; for
Shakespeare's tragedies were still to come. That "Tamburlaine the
Great," the first play of a lad of twenty-three, should have been crude
and bombastic is not surprising; that "The Tragical History of Dr.
Faustus" should have been produced by an author aged probably less than
twenty-five is amazing. The story is traditional; two hundred years
after Marlowe, Goethe gave it its most familiar setting (see Vol. XVI,
p. 362). But although some part of Marlowe's play is grotesque, there
is no epithet which can fitly characterise its greatest scenes except
"tremendous. " What may not that tavern brawl have cost the world!
ACT III
SCENE I. --FAUSTUS' _study. Enter_ WAGNER.
WAGNER: I think my master means to die shortly.
He has made his will, and given me his wealth, his
house, his goods, 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 cheer as
Wagner in his life ne'er saw the like. Here he comes;
belike the feast is ended.
[_Exit. Enter_ FAUSTUS; MEPHISTOPHILIS _follows_.
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?
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord!
Revolt, or I'll in piecemeal tear thy flesh!
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.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeigned heart,
Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift.
FAUSTUS: One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee:
Bring that fair Helen, whose admired worth
Made Greece with ten years' war afflict poor Troy;
Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow,
And keep my oath I made to Lucifer.
MEPHISTOPHILIS: This, or what else my Faustus may desire,
Shall be performed in twinkling of an eye.
[_Enter_ HELEN, _passing over the stage between two cupids_.
FAUSTUS: Was this the face that launched 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!
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars:
Brighter art thou than naming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless Semele:
More lovely than the monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azured arms!
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
SCENE II. --_The same_. FAUSTUS. _Enter_ SCHOLARS.
FIRST SCHOLAR: Worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are changed!
FAUSTUS: Oh, gentlemen!
SECOND SCHOLAR: What ails Faustus?
FAUSTUS: Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived
with thee, then I had 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?
THIRD SCHOLAR: 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear nothing.
FAUSTUS: A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both
body and soul.
SECOND SCHOLAR: Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven, and
remember mercy is infinite.
FAUSTUS: But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned;
the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but
not Faustus. He must remain in hell for ever; hell, Oh,
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! Oh, he stays
my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they
hold 'em, they hold 'em!
SCHOLARS: Who, Faustus?
FAUSTUS: Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen,
I gave them my soul for my cunning!
SECOND SCHOLAR: Oh, 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.
FIRST SCHOLAR: Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let
us into the next room and pray for him.
FAUSTUS: Aye, 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 on thee.
FAUSTUS: Gentlemen, farewell. If I live till morning,
I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.
SCHOLARS: Faustus, farewell!
[_Exeunt_ SCHOLARS. _The clock strikes eleven_.
FAUSTUS: Oh, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair nature's eyes, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
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.
Oh, I'll leap up to heaven: who pulls me down?
See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;
Yet will I call on Him. Oh, spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'Tis gone.
And see, a threatening arm, an 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! Oh, no, it will not harbour me.
Yon stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That when you 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_.
Oh, half the hour is past; 'twill all be past anon.
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pains;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved!
No end is limited to damned souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul,
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Oh, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast! All beasts are happy,
For when they die
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live still, and be plagued in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath deprived 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 changed into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
[_Thunder. Enter_ DEVILS.
Oh, mercy, Heaven! Look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books. O Mephistophilis!
[_Exeunt_ DEVILS _with_ FAUSTUS. _Enter_ CHORUS.
CHORUS: Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned 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 practice more than heavenly power permits.
MARTIAL[Y]
Epigrams, Epitaphs and Poems
_I. --Satiric Pieces and Epigrams_
He unto whom thou art so partial,
O reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it--
Post-obits rarely reach a poet. --_Byron_.
MARTIAL ON HIS WORK
Some things are good, some fair, but more you'll say
Are bad herein--all books are made that way!
FOOTNOTES:
[Y] Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis) was born at Bilbilis,
in Spain, about 40 A. D. He went to Rome when twenty-four, and by
attaching himself to the influential family of his fellow Spaniards,
Seneca and Lucan, won his first introduction to Roman society. The
earliest of his books which we possess celebrates the games associated
with the dedication of the Flavian amphitheatre, the Colosseum,
by Titus, in 80 A. D. Most of his other books belong to the reign
of Domitian, to whom he cringed with fulsome adulation. After a
residence in Rome during thirty-four years, he returned to Spain. He
died probably soon after 102 A. D. Martial's importance to literature
rests chiefly on two facts. He made a permanent impress upon the
epigram by his gift of concise and vigorous utterance, culminating
in a characteristically sharp sting; and he left in his verses, even
where they are coarsest, an extraordinarily graphic index to the
pleasure-loving and often corrupt society of his day. Martial had no
deep seriousness of outlook upon life; yet he had better things in
him than flippancy. He wearied of his long career of attendance upon
patrons who requited him but shabbily; and with considerable taste
for rural scenery, he longed for a more open-air existence than was
attainable in Rome. Where he best exhibited genuine feeling was in his
laments for the dead and his affection for friends. With the exception
of the introductory piece from Byron, the verse translations here are
by Professor Wight Duff.
ON FREEDOM OF LANGUAGE
Strict censure may this harmless sport endure:
My page is wanton, but my life is pure.
THE AIM OF THE EPIGRAMS
My satire knoweth how to keep due bounds:
Sparing the sinner, 'tis the sin it rounds.
ON A SPENDTHRIFT
Castor on buying doth a fortune spend:
Castor will take to selling in the end!
TO A RECITER WHO BAWLED
Why wrap your throat with wool before you read?
_Our_ ears stand rather of the wool in need!
TO AN APOLOGETIC RECITER
Before you start your recitation,
You say your throat is sore:
Dear sir, we hear your explanation,
We don't want any more!
ANSWER TO A POETASTER
Pompilianus asks why I omit
To send him all the poetry that is mine;
The reason is that in return for it,
Pompilianus, thou might'st send me _thine_.
ON A PLAGIARIST
Paul buys up poems, and to your surprise,
Paul then recites them as his own:
And Paul is right; for what a person buys
Is his, as can by law be shown!
A LOVER OF OLD-FASHIONED POETRY
Vacerra likes no bards but those of old--
Only the poets dead are poets true!
Really, Vacerra--may I make so bold? --
It's not worth dying to be liked by _you_.
A GOOD RIDDANCE
Linus, you mock my distant farm,
And ask what good it is to me?
Well, it has got at least one charm--
When there, from Linus I am free!
HOW A WET SEASON HELPS THE ADULTERATION OF WINE
Not everywhere the vintage yield has failed,
Dear Ovid; copious rain has much availed.
Coranus has a hundred gallons good
For sale--_well watered_, be it understood.
THE SYSTEMATIC DINER-OUT
Philo declares he never dines at home,
And that is no exaggeration:
He has no place to dine in Rome,
If he can't hook an invitation.
THE LEGACY-HUNTER CONSIDERS A MARRIAGE _de Convenance_
Paula would like to marry me;
But I have no desire to get her.
Paula is old; if only she
Were nearer dead, I'd like it better!
WIDOWER AND WIDOW
Fabius buries all his wives:
Chrestilla ends her husbands' lives.
The torch which from the marriage-bed
They brandish soon attends the dead.
O Venus, link this conquering pair!
Their match will meet with issue fair,
Whereby for such a dangerous _two_
A single funeral will do!
THE IMPORTUNATE BEGGAR
'Tis best to grant me, Cinna, what I crave;
And next best, Cinna, is refusal straight.
Givers I like: refusal I can brave;
But you don't give--you only hesitate!
TO A FRIEND OVER-CAUTIOUS IN LENDING
A loan without security
You say you have not got for me;
But if I pledge my bit of land,
You have the money close at hand.
Thus, though you cannot trust your friend,
To cabbages and trees you lend.
Now _you_ have to be tried in court--
Get from my bit of land support!
Exiled, you'd like a comrade true--
Well, take my land abroad with you!
AN OLD DANDY
You wish, Laetinus, to be thought a youth,
And so you dye your hair.
You're suddenly a crow, forsooth:
Of late a swan you were!
You can't cheat all: there is a Lady dread
Who knows your hair is grey:
Proserpina will pounce upon your head,
And tear the mask away.
PATIENT AND DOCTOR
When I was ill you came to me,
Doctor, and with great urgency
A hundred students brought with you
A most instructive case to view.
The hundred fingered me with hands
Chilled by the blasts from northern lands;
Fever at outset had I none;
I have it, sir, now you have done!
APING ONE'S BETTERS
Torquatus owns a mansion sumptuous
Exactly four miles out of Rome:
Four miles out also Otacilius
Purchased a little country home.
Torquatus built with marble finely veined
His Turkish baths--a princely suite:
Then Otacilius at once obtained
Some kind of kettle to give heat!
Torquatus next laid out upon his ground
A noble laurel-tree plantation:
The other sowed a hundred chestnuts round--
To please a future generation.
And when Torquatus held the Consulate,
The other was a village mayor,
By local honours made as much elate
As if all Rome were in his care!
The fable saith that once upon a day
The frog that aped the ox did burst:
I fancy ere this rival gets his way,
He will explode with envy first!
_II. --Epitaphs_
ON A DEAD SLAVE-BOY
Dear Alcimus, Death robbed thy lord of thee
When young, and lightly now Labian soil
Veils thee in turf: take for thy tomb to be
No tottering mass of Parian stone which toil
Vainly erects to moulder o'er the dead.
Rather let pliant box thy grave entwine;
Let the vine-tendril grateful shadow shed
O'er the green grass bedewed with tears of mine.
Sweet youth, accept the tokens of my grief:
Here doth my tribute last as long as time.
When Lachesis my final thread shall weave,
I crave such plants above my bones may climb.
ON A LITTLE GIRL, EROTION
Mother Flaccilla, Fronto sire that's gone,
This darling pet of mine, Erotion,
I pray ye greet, that nor the Land of Shade
Nor Hell-hound's maw shall fright my little maid.
Full six chill winters would the child have seen
Had her life only six days longer been.
Sweet child, with our lost friends to guard thee, play,
And lisp my name in thine own prattling way.
Soft be the turf that shrouds her! Tenderly
Rest on her, earth, for she trod light on thee.
_III. --Poems on Friendship and Life_
A WORTHY FRIEND
If there be one to rank with those few friends
Whom antique faith and age-long fame attends;
If, steeped in Latin or Athenian lore,
There be a good man truthful at the core;
If one who guards the right and loves the fair,
Who could not utter an unworthy prayer;
If one whose prop is magnanimity,
I swear, my Decianus, thou art he.
A RETROSPECT
Good comrades, Julius, have we been,
And four-and-thirty harvests seen:
We have had sweetness mixed with sour;
Yet oftener came the happy hour.
If for each day a pebble stood,
And either black or white were hued,
Then, ranged in masses separate,
The brighter ones would dominate.
If thou wouldst shun some heartaches sore,
And ward off gloom that gnaws thy core,
Grapple none closely to thy heart:
If less thy joy, then less thy smart.
GIFTS TO FRIENDS ARE NOT LOST
A cunning thief may rob your money-chest,
And cruel fire lay low an ancient home;
Debtors may keep both loan and interest;
Good seed may fruitless rot in barren loam.
A guileful mistress may your agent cheat,
And waves engulf your laden argosies;
But boons to friends can fortune's slings defeat:
The wealth you give away will never cease.
ON MAKING THE BEST OF LIFE
Julius, in friendship's scroll surpassed by none,
If life-long faith and ancient ties may count,
Nigh sixty consulates by thee have gone:
The days thou hast to live make small amount.
Defer not joys them mayst not win from fate
Judge only what is past to be thine own.
Cares with a linked chain of sorrows wait.
Mirth tarries not; but soon on wing is flown.
With both hands hold it--clasped in full embrace,
Still from thy breast it oft will glide away!
To say, "I mean to live," is folly's place:
To-morrow's life comes late; live, then, to-day.
A DAY IN ROME
(First Century A. D. )
The first two hours Rome spends on morning calls,
And with the third the busy lawyer bawls.
Into the fifth the town plies varied tasks;
The sixth, siesta; next hour closing asks.
The eighth sees bath and oil and exercise;
The ninth brings guest on dining-couch who lies.
The tenth is claimed for Martial's poetry,
When you, my friend, contrive high luxury
To please great Caesar, and fine nectar warms
The mighty hand that knows a wine-cup's charms.
Eve is the time for jest: with step so bold
My muse dare not at morn great Jove behold.
BOREDOM, VERSUS ENJOYMENT
If you and I, dear Martial, might
Enjoy our days in Care's despite,
And could control each leisure hour,
Both free to cull life's real flower,
Then should we never know the halls
Of patrons or law's wearying calls,
Or troublous court or family pride;
But we should chat or read or ride,
Play games or stroll in porch or shade,
Visit the hot baths or "The Maid. "
Such haunts should know us constantly,
Such should engage our energy.
Now neither lives his life, but he
Marks precious days that pass and flee.
These days are lost, but their amount
Is surely set to our account.
Knowledge the clue to life can give;
Then wherefore hesitate to live?
THE HAPPY LIFE
The things that make a life of ease,
Dear Martial, are such things as these:
Wealth furnished not by work but birth,
A grateful farm, a blazing hearth,
No lawsuit, seldom formal dress;
But leisure, stalwart healthiness,
A tactful candour, equal friends,
Glad guests at board which naught pretends,
No drunken nights, but sorrow free,
A bed of joy yet chastity;
Sleep that makes darkness fly apace,
So well content with destined place,
Unenvious so as not to fear
Your final day, nor wish it near.
AT THE SEASIDE
Sweet strand of genial Formiae,
Apollinaris loves to flee
From troublous thought in serious Rome,
And finds thee better than a home.
Here Thetis' face is ruffled by
A gentle wind; the waters lie
Not in dead calm, but o'er the main
A peaceful liveliness doth reign,
Bearing gay yachts before a breeze
Cool as the air that floats with ease
From purple fan of damozel
Who would the summer heat dispel.
The angler need not far away
Seek in deep water for his prey--
Your line from bed or sofa throw,
And watch the captured fish below!
How seldom, Rome, dost thou permit
Us by such joys to benefit?
How many days can one long year
Credit with wealth of Formian cheer?
We, round whom city worries swarm,
Envy our lacqueys on a farm.
Luck to you, happy slaves, affords
The joys designed to please your lords!
THE POET'S FINAL RETREAT IN SPAIN
Mayhap, my Juvenal, your feet
Stray down some noisy Roman street,
While after many years of Rome
I have regained my Spanish home.
Bilbilis, rich in steel and gold,
Makes me a rustic as of old.
With easy-going toil at will
Estates of uncouth name I till.
Outrageous lengths of sleep I take,
And oft refuse at nine to wake.
I pay myself nor more nor less
For thirty years of wakefulness!
No fine clothes here--but battered dress,
The first that comes, snatched from a press!
