wherefore
com'st thou ?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v17 - Mai to Mom
” — "I loved him so much,” said Longarine, “that I think I
should have killed him and then killed myself; for to die after
such vengeance would be pleasanter to me than to live faithfully
with a faithless husband. ”
"As far as I see,” said Hircan, "you love your husbands only
for yourselves. If they are good . after your own heart, you love
them well; if they commit towards you the least fault in the
world, they have lost their week's work by a Saturday. The
long and the short is that you want to be mistresses; for my
part I am of your mind, provided all the husbands also agree
to it. ” — “It is reasonable,” said Parlamente, “that the man rule
as our head, but not that he desert us or ill-treat us. "
"God," said Oisille, “has set in such due order the man and the
woman that if the marriage estate is not abused, I hold it to be
one of the most beautiful and stable conditions in the world;
and I am sure that all those here present, whatever air they as-
sume, think no less highly of it. And forasmuch as men say
they are wiser than women, they should be more sharply punished
when the fault is on their side. But we have talked enough on
this subject. ”
C
us
»
## p. 9713 (#121) ###########################################
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9713
IV
»
"IT SEEMS to me, since the passage from one life to another
is inevitable, that the shortest death is the best. I consider for-
I
tunate those who do not dwell in the suburbs of death, and who
from that felicity which alone in this world can be called felicity
pass suddenly to that which is eternal. ” “What do you call the
suburbs of death ? ” said Simortault. — “I mean that those who
have many tribulations, and those also who have long been sick,
those who by extremity of bodily or mental pain, have come to
hold death in contempt and to find its hour too tardy,- all these
have wandered in the suburbs of death, and will tell you the hos-
telries where they have more wept than slept. ”
V
(
»
((
“Do you count as nothing the shame she underwent, and her
imprisonment ? »
I think that one who loves perfectly, with a love in harmony
with the commands of God, knows neither shame nor dishonor
save when the perfection of her love fails or is diminished; for
the glory of true loves knows not shame: and as to the imprison-
ment of her body, I believe that through the freedom of her
heart which was united with God and with her husband, she did
not feel it, but considered its solitude very great liberty; for to
one who cannot see the beloved, there is no greater good than
to think incessantly of him, and the prison is never narrow where
the thought can range at will. "
VI
C
"In Good faith I am astonished at the diversity in the nature
of women's love: and I see clearly that those who have most
love have most virtue; but those who have less love, dissimulate,
wishing to feign virtue. ”
"It is true," said Parlamente, “that a heart pure towards God
and man, loves more strongly than one that is vicious, and it
fears not to have its very thoughts known. ”
S111-605
## p. 9714 (#122) ###########################################
9714
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
(1564-1593)
was a
wo months before the birth of William Shakespeare, on Feb-
ruary 26th, 1564, John Marlowe, shoemaker in the ancient
town of Canterbury, carried a baby boy, his first son, to
be baptized in the Church of St. George the Martyr. John Marlowe
clarke of Saint Marie's church, and member of the Shoe-
makers' and Tanners' Guild. He may have been a man of sufficient
means to give his son a liberal education; or some rich gentleman,
Sir John Manwood perhaps, may have interested himself in the gifted
lad. At any rate Christopher went to the King's School, Canterbury,
where fifty pupils were taught gratuitously and allowed £4 a year
each; and there he was a diligent scholar, for it is recorded that in
1579 he received an allowance of £1 for each of the first three terms.
From school he was sent to Benet- now Corpus Christi — College,
Cambridge; where he obtained the degree of B. A. in 1583, a:id that
of M. A. in 1587. His translations of Ovid's elegies were probably
begun, if not completed, during his years at the university. There
are slight indications in his poems that he may have been a soldier
for a time, and served during the Netherlands campaign. Probably,
however, he went at once to London from Cambridge,—"a boy in
years, a man in genius, a god in ambition,” as Swinburne says,- and
began his struggle for fame and fortune. Like many another young
poet, he may have gone on the stage; but it is said that he was soon
after incapacitated for acting, by an accident which lamed him. He
attached himself as playwright to a prominent dramatic company, -
that of the Earl of Nottingham, the Lord Admiral.
He was a dashing fellow, witty and daring, “the darling of the
town, and with a gift for making friends. He was a protégé of
Thomas Walsingham, and gallant Sir Walter Raleigh found him a
congenial spirit. He knew Kyd, Nash, Greene, Chapman, and very
likely Shakespeare too. Of all the brilliant group that glorify Eliza-
bethan literature, there is no more striking or typical figure than
Marlowe's own. He was the very embodiment of the Renascence
spirit, with energies all vitalized and athirst for both spiritual and
sensual satisfactions. His gay-hearted, passionate, undisciplined nature
was too exorbitant in demand to find content. To his pagan soul
beauty and pleasure were ultimate aims, orthodox faith and observ-
ances impossible. So for a few mad years he dreamed and wrote,
a
>>>
## p. 9715 (#123) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9715
loved and feasted, starved sometimes, perhaps; and then at twenty-
nine, when he had tried all possible experiences, his wild, brilliant
young life suddenly ended. His irreligious scoffing, doubtless exag-
gerated from mouth to mouth, led finally to a warrant for his arrest.
Evading this, he had gone to the small town of Deptford, and there,
June 1593, while at the tavern, he became engaged in a drunken
scuffle in which he was fatally stabbed.
Marlowe's first play, “Tamburlaine,' must have been written before
he was twenty-four. Like many of his contemporaries, he always bor-
rowed his plots; and this one he took from Foreste,' a translation
from the Spanish made by Thomas Fortescue. His treatment of it
was a conscious effort to revolutionize dramatic poetry; for «jiggling
veins of rhyming mother wits” to substitute “high astounding terms”;
and it is his great distinction that with “Tamburlaine) he established
blank verse in the English drama. From the appearance of (Gorbo-
duc) in 1562 there had been blank or rimeless verse; but the customary
form of dramatic expression was in tediously monotonous heroic coup-
lets, whether they suited the subject or not. Marlowe was the first
of the English dramatists to understand that thought and expression
should be in harmony. His original spirit refused dictation; and he
developed a rich sonorous line, the beauty of which was recognized
at once. His musical ear and poetic instinct guided him to hitherto
forbidden licenses, — variety in the management of the cæsura, femi-
nine rhymes, run-on lines, the introduction of other than iambic
measures; and thus he secured an elasticity of metre which perma-
nently enriched English poetry. His creative daring stifled a cold
and formal classicism, inaugurated our romantic drama, and served as
guiding indication to Shakespeare himself. But although certain
verses of Tamburlaine) cling to the reader's memory as perfect in
poetic feeling and harmony, the greater part of it is mere “bombast »
to modern taste. Even in Marlowe's day his exaggerations excited
ridicule, and quotations from his dramas became town catchwords.
But the spontaneous passion of his impossible conceptions gave them
a force which impressed the public. Tamburlaine was immensely
popular, and the sequel or Part Second was enthusiastically received.
Many critics since Ben Jonson have discussed “Marlowe's mighty
line » and honored its influence; and his fellow writers were quick to
follow his example.
The Faust legend, traceable back to the sixth century, finally
drifted over to England, where in ballad form, founded upon the
Volksbuch' by Spiess, it appeared in 1587, and probably soon caught
Marlowe's attention. His play of Dr. Faustus' was given in 1588,
and was very highly praised. It is said that Goethe, who thought of
translating it, exclaimed admiringly, “How greatly it is all planned ! »
((
## p. 9716 (#124) ###########################################
9716
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Compared with the harmonic unity of form and matter in Goethe's
(Faust,' Marlowe's work seems childish in construction, uneven and
faulty in expression. But there are certain passages — for example,
the thrilling passion of the invocation to Helen, and the final despair
of Faustus — of positive poetic splendor.
In the Jew of Malta' there are fine passages which show Mar-
lowe's increasing mastery of his line. But in spite of its descriptive
color and force, and keen touches of characterization, it was less
successful than “Tamburlaine,' and is perhaps most noteworthy now
for the obvious parallelism of certain scenes with those of the later
Merchant of Venice. '
(Edward II. ,' founded upon Robert Fabyan's Chronicle or Con-
cordance of Histories,' is structurally the best of Marlowe's plays,
and contains finely pathetic verse which bears comparison with that
of Shakespeare's historical dramas. The poet as he grows older
seems to take a broader, more sympathetic view of life; and there-
fore he begins to understand feelings more normal than the infinite
ambitions of Faustus and Tamburlaine, and becomes more skillful in
the portrayal of character. There is little of his earlier exaggeration.
The two shorter dramas — 'The Massacre of Paris,' and Dido,
Queen of Carthage) were written in collaboration with other play-
wrights.
No one can read Marlowe carefully without feeling that the social
influences of his time made him a dramatist, and that he was by
nature a lyric poet. He was intensely subjective, and incapable of
taking an impersonal and comprehensive point of view. He always
expresses his own aspiration for fame, or joy, or satisfaction, tran-
scending anything earth can offer. « That like I best that Aies be-
yond my reach. ” This preoccupation with imaginative ideals made
it impossible for him to understand every-day human nature. Hence
no touch of humor vitalizes his work; and hence his efforts to depict
women are always vague and unsatisfactory. He is at his best when
expressing his own passions,— his adoration of light and color, of gold
and sparkling gems, of milk-white beauties with rippling brilliant
hair. Like the other men of his time, he loved nature: delighted
in tinkling waters, wide skies, gay velvety blossoms. He is a
thorough sensualist; frankly, ardently so in Hero and Leander,'-
that beautiful love poem, a paraphrase of Musach's poem, of which
he wrote the first two sestiads, and which after his death was fin-
ished by Chapman. Every one knows the lines, written in much the
same spirit, of 'The Passionate Shepherd to his Love); "that smooth
song which was made by Kit Marlowe,” as Izaak Walton says. It
had many imitations, and a charming response from the pen of Sir
Walter Raleigh.
## p. 9717 (#125) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9717
It has been suggested that Shakespeare in his early days may have
looked enviously at the successful young Marlowe. This erring ideal-
ist aimed high, and left a lasting imprint upon English literature.
He reached fame very quickly; made more friends than enemies;
and his early death called out many tributes of love and admiration.
Michael Drayton wrote of him:-
«Next Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian Springs,
Had in him those brave translunary things
That the first poets had: his raptures were
All air and fire, which made his verses clear;
For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain. ”
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
CO
OME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
## p. 9718 (#126) ###########################################
9718
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
FROM (TAMBURLAINE)
Alarms of battle within. Enter Cosroe, wounded, and Tamburlaine
OSROE
С
Barbarous and bloody Tamburlaine,
Thus to deprive me of my crown and life!
Treacherous and false Theridamas,
Even at the morning of my happy state,
Scarce being seated in my royal throne,
To work my downfall and untimely end!
An uncouth pain torments my grieved soul,
And death arrests the organ of my voice,
Who, entering at the breach thy sword hath made,
Sacks every vein and artier of my heart.
Bloody and insatiate Tamburlaine !
Tamburlaine -
The thirst of reign and sweetness of a crown
That caused the eldest son of heavenly Ops
To thrust his doting father from his chair,
And place himself in the empyreal heaven,
Moved me to manage arms against thy state.
What better precedent than mighty Jove?
Nature that framed us of four elements,
Warring within our breasts for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds.
Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the world,
And measure every wandering planet's course,
Still climbing after knowledge infinite,
And always moving as the restless spheres,
Will us to wear ourselves, and never rest,
Until we reach the ripest fruit of all, –
That perfect bliss and sole delicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
FROM (TAMBURLAINE)
A
H, FAIR Zenocrate! - divine Zenocrate! -
Fair is too foul an epithet for thee,
That in thy passion for thy country's love,
And fear to see thy kingly father's harm,
With hair disheveled wip'st thy watery cheeks;
And like to Flora in her morning pride,
Shaking her silver tresses in the air,
## p. 9719 (#127) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9719
Rain'st on the earth resolvèd pearl in showers,
And sprinklest sapphires on thy shining face,
Where Beauty, mother to the Muses, sits
And comments volumes with her ivory pen,
Taking instructions from thy flowing eyes;
Eyes that, when Ebena steps to heaven,
In silence of thy solemn evening's walk,
Make, in the inantle of the richest night,
The moon, the planets, and the meteors, light.
There angels in their crystal armors fight
A doubtful battle with my tempted thoughts,
For Egypt's freedom and the Soldan's life;
His life that so consumes Zenocrate,
Whose sorrows lay more siege unto my soul,
Than all my army to Damascus's walls:
And neither Persia's sovereign, nor the Turk,
Troubled my senses with conceit of foil
So much by much as doth Zenocrate.
What is beauty, saith my sufferings, then ?
If all the pens that ever poets held
Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,
And every sweetness that inspired their hearts,
Their minds, and muses on admired themes;
If all the heavenly quintessence they still
From their immortal flowers of poesy,
Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive
The highest reaches of a human wit;
If these had made one poem's period,
And all combined in beauty's worthiness,
Yet should there hover in their restless heads
One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest.
But how unseemly is it for my sex,
My discipline of arms and chivalry,
My nature, and the terror of my name,
To harbor thoughts effeminate and faint!
Save only that in beauty's just applause,
With whose instinct the soul of man is touched;
And every warrior that is wrapt with love
Of fame, of valor, and of victory,
Must needs have beauty beat on his conceits :
I thus conceiving and subduing both
That which hath stooped the chiefest of the gods,
Even from the fiery-spangled veil of heaven,
## p. 9720 (#128) ###########################################
9720
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
To feel the lowly warmth of shepherds' flames,
And mask in cottages of strowed reeds,
Shall give the world to note for all my birth,
That virtue solely is the sum of glory,
And fashions men with true nobility.
FROM (TAMBURLAINE)
TASHKI
AMBURLAINE — But now, my boys, leave off and list
to me,
That mean to teach you rudiments of war:
I'll have you learn to sleep upon the ground,
March in your armor thorough watery fens,
Sustain the scorching heat and freezing cold,
Hunger and thirst, right adjuncts of the war,
And after this to scale a castle wall,
Besiege a fort, to undermine a town,
And make whole cities caper in the air.
Then next the way to fortify your men:
In champion grounds, what figure serves you best,
For which the quinque-angle form is meet,
Because the corners there may fall more flat
Whereas the fort may fittest be assailed,
And sharpest where the assault is desperate.
The ditches must be deep; the counterscarps
Narrow and steep; the walls made high and broad;
The bulwarks and the rampires large and strong,
With cavalieros and thick counterforts,
And room within to lodge six thousand men.
It must have privy ditches, countermines,
And secret issuings to defend the ditch:
It must have high argins and covered ways,
To keep the bulwark fronts from battery,
And parapets to hide the musketers;
Casemates to place the great artillery:
And store of ordnance, that from every flank
May scour the outward curtains of the fort,
Dismount the cannon of the adverse part,
Murder the foe, and save the walls from breach.
When this is learned for service on the land,
By plain and easy demonstration
I'll teach you how to make the water mount,
That you may dry-foot march through lakes and pools,
## p. 9721 (#129) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
972 1
Deep rivers, havens, creeks, and little seas,
And make a fortress in the raging waves,
Fenced with the concave of monstrous rock,
Invincible by nature of the place.
When this is done then are ye soldiers,
And worthy sons of Tamburlaine the Great.
Calyphas - My lord, but this is dangerous to be done:
We may be slain or wounded ere we learn.
Tamburlaine -
Villain! Art thou the son of Tamburlaine,
And fear'st to die, or with a curtle-axe
To hew thy flesh, and make a gaping wound ?
Hast thou beheld a peal of ordnance strike
A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse,
Whose shattered limbs, being tossed as high as Heaven,
Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes,
And canst thou, coward, stand in fear of death ?
Hast thou not seen my horsemen charge the foe,
Shot through the arms, cut overthwart the hands,
Dyeing their lances with their streaming blood,
And yet at night carouse within my tent,
Filling their empty veins with airy wine,
That, being concocted, turns to crimson blood, -
And wilt thou shun the field for fear of wounds ?
View me, thy father, that hath conquered kings,
And with his horse marched round about the earth
Quite void of scars and clear from any wound,
That by the wars lost not a drop of blood, -
And see him lance his flesh to teach you all.
(He cuts his arm.
A wound is nothing, be it ne'er so deep;
Blood is the god of war's rich livery.
Now look I like a soldier, and this wound
As great a grace and majesty to me,
As if a chain of gold, enameled,
Enchased with diamonds, sapphires, rubies,
And fairest pearl of wealthy India,
Were mounted here under a canopy,
And I sate down clothed with a massy robe,
That late adorned the Afric potentate,
Whom I brought bound unto Damascus's walls.
Come, boys, and with your fingers search my wound.
And in my blood wash all your hands at once,
## p. 9722 (#130) ###########################################
972 2
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
While I sit smiling to behold the sight.
Now, my boys, what think ye of a wound?
Calyphas - I know not what I should think of it; methinks it is a
pitiful sight.
Celebinus — 'Tis nothing: give me a wound, father.
Amyras And me another, my lord.
Tamburlaine -
Come, sirrah, give me your arm.
Celebinus Here, father, cut it bravely, as you did your own.
Tamburlaine -
It shall suffice thou darest abide a wound:
My boy, thou shalt not lose a drop of blood
Before we meet the army of the Turk;
But then run desperate through the thickest throngs,
Dreadless of blows, of bloody wounds, and death;
And let the burning of Larissa-walls,
My speech of war, and this my wound you see,
Teach you, my boys, to bear courageous minds,
Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine !
INVOCATION TO HELEN
From Doctor Faustus)
F
AUSTUS- 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.
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 Wertenberg be sacked;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colors on my plumèd crest;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appeared to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
## p. 9723 (#131) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9723
In wanton Arethusa's azured arms:
And none but thou shalt be my paramour.
Ah, 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 eye, 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 damned.
Oh, I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down ?
See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop would save my soul! – half a drop; ah, my
Christ!
Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!
Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer! -
Where is it now ? 'tis gone; and see where God
Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows!
Mountain and hills come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of God!
No! No!
Then will I headlong run into the earth;
Earth gape! Oh, no, it will not harbor me!
You 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 laboring clouds,
That when they vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from their smoky mouths,
So that my soul may but ascend to heaven.
The clock strikes the half-hour. ]
Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon!
O God!
If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul,
Yet for Christ's sake whose blood hath ransomed me,
Impose some end to my incessant pain;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years
A hundred thousand, and — at last - be saved!
## p. 9724 (#132) ###########################################
9724
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Oh, no end is limited to damned souls!
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast ?
Ah, Pythagoras's metempsychosis! were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Unto some brutish beast! all beasts are happy,
For, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live, still to be plagued in hell.
Curst be the parents that engendered me!
No, Faustus: curse thyself; curse Lucifer
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
[The clock strikes twelve. ]
Oh, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.
[ Thunder and lightning: ]
O soul, be changed into little water-drops,
And fall into the ocean - ne'er be found.
Enter Devils
My God! my God! 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! - Ah, Mephistophilis!
[Exeunt Devils with Faustus. )
Enter Chorus
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 practice more than heavenly power permits. (Exit.
## p. 9725 (#133) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9725
FROM EDWARD THE SECOND)
K"
ING EDWARD
Who's there? what light is that?
wherefore com'st thou ?
Lightborn — To comfort you, and bring you joyful news.
King Edward –
Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks.
Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me.
Lightborn – To murder you, my most gracious lord !
Far is it from my heart to do you harm.
The Queen sent me to see how you were used,
For she relents at this your misery;
And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears,
To see a king in this most piteous state ?
King Edward -
Weep'st thou already ? List awhile to me:
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's is,
Or as Matrevis's, hewn from the Caucasus,
Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale.
This dungeon where they keep me is the sink
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.
Lightborn - 0 villains !
King Edward -
And there in mire and puddle have I stood
This ten days' space; and lest that I should sleep,
One plays continually upon a drum;
They give me bread and water, being a king:
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance,
My mind's distempered, and my body's numbed;
And whether I have limbs or no I know not.
Oh, would my blood dropped out from every vein,
As doth this water from my tattered robes.
Tell Isabel, the queen, I looked not thus
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,
And there unhorsed the Duke of Cleremont.
Lightborn Oh, speak no more, my lord! This breaks my heart.
Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile.
King Edward -
These looks of thine can harbor naught but death:
I see my tragedy written in thy brows.
Yet stay: awhile forbear thy bloody hand,
And let me see the stroke before it comes;
That even then, when I shall lose my life.
My mind may be more steadfast on my God.
## p. 9726 (#134) ###########################################
9726
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Lightborn – What means your Highness to mistrust me thus ?
King Edward -
What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus?
Lighthorn - These hands were never stained with innocent blood,
Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's.
King Edward –
Forgive my thought for having such a thought.
One jewel have I left; receive thou this. [Giving jewel. )
Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause,
But every joint shakes as I give it thee.
Oh, if thou harborest murder in thy heart,
Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul.
Know that I am a king - oh, at that name
I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown?
Gone, gone! and do I still remain alive?
Lightborn – You're overwatched, my lord: lie down and rest.
King Edward -
But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep:
For not these ten days have these eyelids closed.
Now as I speak they fall; and yet with fear
Open again. Oh, wherefore sitt'st thou here?
Lightborn — If you mistrust me, I'll begone, my lord.
King Edward-
No, no: for if thou mean'st to murder me,
Thou wilt return again; and therefore stay. [Sleeps. )
Lightborn - He sleeps.
King Edward [waking] -
Oh, let me not die yet! Oh, stay a while!
Lightborn — How now, my lord ?
King Edward -
Something still buzzeth in mine ears,
And tells me if I sleep I never wake;
This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.
And therefore tell me, Wherefore art thou come?
Lightborn To rid thee of thy life. — Matrevis, come!
Enter Matrevis and Gurney
King Edward -
I am too weak and feeble to resist :
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul!
Lightborn - Run for the table.
King Edward -
Oh, spare me, or dispatch me in a trice.
Matrevis brings in a table. )
## p. 9727 (#135) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9727
Lightborn — So, lay the table down, and stamp on it,
But not too hard, lest that you bruise his body.
King Edward is murdered. ]
Matrev'is — I fear me that this cry will raise the town,
And therefore, let us take horse and away.
Lightborn Tell me, sirs, was it not bravely done?
Gurney - Excellent well: take this for thy reward.
[Gurney stabs Lightborn, who dies. ]
Come, let us cast the body in the moat,
And bear the King's to Mortimer our lord !
Away!
[Exeunt with the bodies.
FROM THE JEW OF MALTA)
ARABAS
B*
So that of thus much that return was made;
And of the third part of the Persian ships,
There was the venture summed and satisfied.
As for those Sabans, and the men of Uz,
That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece,
Here have I purst their paltry silverlings.
Fie; what a trouble 'tis to count this trash!
Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay
The things they traffic for with wedge of gold,
Whereof a man may easily in a day
Tell that which may maintain him all his life.
The needy groom that never fingered groat
Would make a miracle of thus much coin;
But he whose steel-barred coffers are crammed full,
And all his lifetime hath been tired,
Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it,
Would in his age be loth to labor so,
And for a pound to sweat himself to death.
Give me the merchants of the Indian mines,
That trade in metal of the purest mold;
The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks
Without control can pick his riches up,
And in his house heap pearls like pebble-stones,
Receive them free, and sell them by the weight;
Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts,
Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds,
## p. 9728 (#136) ###########################################
9728
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds,
And seld-seen costly stones of so great price,
As one of them indifferently rated,
And of a carat of this quantity,
May serve in peril of calamity
To ransom great kings from captivity.
This is the ware wherein consists my wealth;
And thus methinks should men of judgment frame
Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade,
And as their wealth increaseth, so inclose
Infinite riches in a little room.
These are the blessings promised to the Jews,
And herein was old Abram's happiness:
What more may Heaven do for earthly man
Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps,
Ripping the bowels of the earth for them,
Making the seas their servants, and the winds
To drive their substance with successful blasts ?
Who hateth me but for my happiness?
Or who is honored now but for his wealth ?
Rather had I a Jew be hated thus,
Than pitied in a Christian poverty:
For I can see no fruits in all their faith,
But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride,
Which methinks fits not their profession.
Haply some hapless man hath conscience,
And for his conscience lives in beggary.
They say
we are a scattered nation;
I cannot tell, but we have scambled up
More wealth by far than those that brag of faith.
There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece,
Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal,
Myself in Malta, some in Italy,
Many in France, and wealthy every one;
Ay, wealthier far than any Christian.
I must confess we come not to be kings:
That's not our fault; alas, our number's few,
And crowns come either by succession,
Or urged by force; and nothing violent,
Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent.
Give us a peaceful rule; make Christians kings,
That thirst so much for principality.
## p. 9729 (#137) ###########################################
9729
CLÉMENT MAROT
(1497-1544)
顯
HE quality that gives a peculiar charm to the verses of Marot
is the blending of gayety and gravity. With light touches
he expresses serious feeling, and the sincerity of his senti-
ment suffers no wrong from the fantastic dress of the period. His
Muse wears a particolored robe; not that of Folly, but a garment of
rich and noble patches, in which velvets and brocades oddly harmon-
ize with the homespun they strengthen and adorn. It is because
they are the velvets and brocades of the Renaissance, any scrap
or shred of which had a decorative value.
And still another material is to be observed:
the strong linen of the Reformation, whose
whiteness endues with the more pictur-
esqueness the brilliant colors.
The poetic life of Clément Marot opened
on the plane of pedantry, and closed on
that of preaching; but between these two
conditions - each of them the consequence
of the influences of the time — his own indi-
viduality asserted itself in countless humor-
ous, delicate, charming, exquisite epistles »
and "elegies,” “epitaphs” and “étrennes »
and “ballades,” “dizains,” rondeaux,” and CLÉMENT MAROT
(chansons, and in "epigrammes,” — some of
them coarse and cynical, and some to be counted among his best and
most original work. He wrote also eclogues”; and one on the death
of the queen mother, Luise of Savoie, is considered a masterpiece.
Two other kinds of composition in which he also excelled had in the
sixteenth century a great vogue: the “blazon” and the coq à l'âne. ”
The “blazons » were eulogistic or satirical descriptions of different
parts of an object; they were devoted by the gallantry of the day
to the description of a woman's eyebrow or eyes, or hand, or more
intimate parts of the body. The two “blazons” of Marot ("Du Beau
Tetin' and Du Layd Tetin') inspired a whole series of productions of
the same kind from contemporary versifiers. The pieces called “coq
à l'âne” were, before Marot, a jeu d'esprit of incoherent verses. Marot
gave them a new character by making able use of this apparent
incoherency to veil satirical attacks on formidable enemies.
XVII—609
»
»
»
(
>
## p. 9730 (#138) ###########################################
9730
CLÉMENT MAROT
It has been prettily said that he was as the bee among poets, -
delicately winged, honey-making, and with a sting for self-defense.
Born in 1497, the son of a secretary of Queen Anne of Brittany,
in 1515 the youthful poet presented to the youthful King (Francis
the First) a poetical composition, the longest he ever wrote, entitled
Le Temple de Cupido. ' In 1519 he - "Le Despourveu,” as he styled
himself -- was attached to the court of Marguerite (the sister of
Francis), then the Duchesse d'Alençon. Five years later he became
one of her pensioners, and through all his after life he was cared
for and protected by her. In 1528 he was made one of the King's
household, and at this moment his powers attained their highest
point. The court, as he himself says, was his true “schoolmistress. ”
In 1532 appeared the first collection of his verses.
But for some years previously his half-heretical opinions had
drawn trouble upon him, protest as he might
« Point ne suis Lutheriste,
Ne Zuinglien, et moins Anabaptiste;
Je suis de Dieu par son fils Jesuchrist. ”
a
(
In 1526 he suffered imprisonment for a few weeks, and this imprison-
ment was the occasion of a long poem entitled Hell,' — a satire
on the tribunal and prison of the Châtelet. This «si gentil æuvre »
was first printed at Antwerp, and was reprinted some years later by
Estienne Dolet, “in the most beautiful form,” he says, and with the
most ornament possible to me, . . because in reading it I have
found it free from anything scandalous respecting God and religion,
and not containing anything against the majesty of princes. ” It was
of such crimes that Marot had been accused.
In 1531 he was again brought before the Parliament, and once
more he was summoned in 1535. The matter now looked so serious
that he thought it best to fly to Ferrara, to the court of Renée of
France, where he found himself in company with Calvin. The per-
sonal unhappiness of the Princess Renée made a profound impression
on Marot. He saw this ardent protectress of the Protestants to be
sadly in need herself of protection; and more than once, at this time
and later, he addressed to her, and to others regarding her, strains of
heartfelt compassion.
Her ducal husband Ercole d'Este — the enemy
of her friends-swept out of the city as with a besom all her pro-
tégés as often as he could; and Marot was soon obliged to make his
way to Venice.
Within the year, however, he received permission to
return to France, and was once more high in the King's favor.
But the immense, wide-spread success of a translation of some of
the Psalms he now made again roused the Sorbonne; and he was
forced to take refuge at Turin, where he died in 1544.
later his friend Estienne Dolet was burned at the stake.
Two years
## p. 9731 (#139) ###########################################
CLÉMENT MAROT
9731
Such was the outward career of this vivid, eager poet. He was
perhaps, in his relations to the world, audacious rather than bold;
in his relations to the other world, a lover of novelty rather than
of truth; as a man, somewhat vain and boastful, somewhat licen-
tious in a licentious age, - but he wrote verses that disarm criticism.
In reading the best of them, one is persuaded for the moment that
nothing is so enchanting as spontaneity, gayety, grace, quickness,
keenness, unimpassioned sentiment and natural courtesy, and the
philosophy that jests at personal misfortunes, flowing from a heart
of tenderness. Admiration of another kind also is excited in remem-
bering that this poet, whose epistles to “the great ” — to the King
and his sister - are almost in the tone of equal addressing equal, was
after all, nominally their servant, actually their dependent. A foolish
legend has prevailed that the relations between Marot and the Queen
of Navarre were of extreme intimacy. There is absolutely nothing to
justify such a belief. The attachment between them — respectful on
both sides was only one of the illustrations of the relations brought
about by the Renaissance between crowned heads and men of letters.
The long Epistles of Marot are his most interesting productions.
He was the creator of the “épître-badine,” and he has never been
surpassed in this kind of writing. The Epistle to Lyon Jamet, con-
taining the fable of the rat and the lion, is the most famous; but its
length and the exquisite quality of its style forbid any attempt at
its reproduction here. In his Epistles, as elsewhere in his work, the
best and most characteristic and the gayest verses of Marot are of
extreme difficulty to translate. Their form is their very substance:
change even the mere sound of a word, and its meaning is gone.
He, like La Fontaine,- there are many similarities between the two,
can be known only by those who can read him in the original.
The following translations can scarcely do more than show the sub-
jects of the verses selected, and the general tone.
Marot exercised no durable influence, though his style was
marked that it became a generic designation -"le style Marotique. ”
But “le style Marotique” means different things according to the
person using the phrase. Marmontel defines it as “a medley of
phrases vulgar and noble, old-fashioned and modern. ” La Harpe said
"a (style Marotique) is one that has the gay, agreeable, simple,
natural manner peculiar to Marot. ” La Harpe's definition is the truer,
that of Marmontel the one most generally accepted.
SO
)
## p. 9732 (#140) ###########################################
9732
CLÉMENT MAROT
OLD-TIME LOVE
N GOOD old days such sort of love held sway
As artlessly and simply made its way,
And a few flowers, the gift of love sincere,
Than all the round earth's riches were more dear:
IN
For to the heart alone did they address their lay.
And if they chanced to love each other, pray
Take heed how well they then knew how to stay
For ages faithful — twenty, thirty year —
In good old days.
But now is lost Love's rule they used t’ obey;
Only false tears and changes fill the day.
Who would have me a lover now appear
Must love make over in the olden way,
And let it rule as once it held its sway
In good old days.
EPIGRAM
N°
LONGER am I what I have been,
Nor again can ever be;
My bright Springtime and my Summer
Through the window flew from me.
Love, thou hast ever been my master,
I've served no other God so well;
Oh, were I born a second time, Love,
Then my service none could tell.
TO A LADY WHO WISHED TO BEHOLD MAROT
B
EFORE she saw me, reading in my book,
She loved me; then she wished to see iny face:
Now she has seen me, gray, and swart of look,
Yet none the less remain I in her grace.
O gentle heart, inaiden of worthy race,
You do not err: for this my body frail,
It is not I; naught is it but my jail :
And in the writings that you once did read,
Your lovely eyes — so may the truth avail —
Saw me more truly than just now, indeed.
## p. 9733 (#141) ###########################################
CLÉMENT MAROT
9733
THE LAUGH OF MADAME D'ALBRET
SHF
He has indeed a throat of lovely whiteness,
The sweetest speech, and fairest cheeks and eyes;
But in good sooth her little laugh of lightness
Is where her chiefest charm, to my thought, lies.
With its gay note she can make pleasure rise,
Where'er she hap to be, withouten fail;
And should a bitter grief me e'er assail,
So that my life by death may threatened be,
To bring me back to health will then avail
To hear this laugh with which she slayeth me.
FROM AN (ELEGY »
Th
Hy lofty place, thy gentle heart,
Thy wisdom true in every part,
Thy gracious mien, thy noble air,
Thy singing sweet, and speech so fair,
Thy robe that does so well conform
To the nature of thy lovely form:
In short, these gifts and charins whose grace
Invests thy soul and thee embrace,
Are not what has constrained me
To give my heart's true love to thee.
'Twas thy sweet smile which me perturbed,
And from thy lips a gracious word
Which from afar made me to see
Thou'd not refuse to hear my plea.
Come, let us make one heart of two!
Better work we cannot do;
For 'tis plain our starry guides,
The accord of our lives besides,
Bid this be done. For of us each
Is like the other in thought and speech:
We both love men of courtesy,
We both love honor and purity,
We both love never to speak evil,
We both love pleasant talk that's civil,
We both love being in those places
Where rarely venture saddened faces,
We both love merry music's measure,
We both in books find frequent pleasure.
## p. 9734 (#142) ###########################################
9734
CLÉMENT MAROT
What more is there? Just this to sing
I'll dare: in almost everything
Alike we are, save hearts;— for thine
Is much more hard, alas! than mine.
Beseech thee now this rock demolish,
Yet not thy sweeter parts abolish.
THE DUCHESS D'ALENÇON
S
UCH lofty worth has she, my great mistress,
That her fair body's upright, pure, and fine;
Her steadfast heart, when Fortune's star doth shine,
Is ne'er too light, nor elsetimes in distress.
Her spirit rare than angels is no less,
The subtlest sure that e'er the heavens bred.
O marvel great! Now can it clear be seen
That I the slave am of a wonder dread. -
Wonder, I say, for sooth she has, I ween,
A woman's form, man's heart, and angel's head.
TO THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE
M
OURN for the dead, let who will for them mourn;-
But while I live, my heart is most forlorn
For those whose night of sorrow sees no dawn
On this earth.
( Flower of France whom at the first I served,
Those thou hast freed from pain that them unnerved
Have given pain to thee, ah! undeserved,
I'll attest.
Of ingrates thou hast sadly made full test;
But since I left thee (bound by stern behest), -
Not leaving thee, - full humbly I've addrest
A princess
Who has a heart that does not sorrow less
Than thine. Ah God! shall I ne'er know mistress,
Before I die, whose eye on sad distress
Is not bent?
Is not my Muse as fit and apt to invent
A song of peace that would bring full content
As chant the bitterness of this torment
Exceeding ?
## p. 9735 (#143) ###########################################
CLÉMENT MAROT
9735
Ah! listen, Margaret, to the suffering
That in the heart of Renée plants its sting;
Then, sister-like, than hope more comforting,
Console her.
FROM A LETTER TO THE KING; AFTER BEING ROBBED
I
HAD of late a Gascon serving-man:
A monstrous liar, glutton, drunkard, both,
A trickster, thief, and every word an oath,-
The rope almost around his neck, you see, -
But otherwise the best of fellows he.
This very estimable youngster knew
Of certain money given me by you:
A mighty swelling in my purse he spied;
Rose earlier than usual, and hied
To take it deftly, giving no alarm,
And tucked it snugly underneath his arm,-
Money and all, of course, - and it is plain
'Twas not to give it back to me again,
For never have I seen it, to this day.
But still the rascal would not run away
For such a trifling bagatelle as that,
So also took cloak, trousers, cape, and hat,-
In short, of all my clothes the very best,
And then himself so finely in them dressed
That to behold him, e'en by light of day,
It was his master surely, you would say.
He left my chamber finally, and flew
Straight to the stable, where were horses two;
Left me the worst, and mounted on the best,
His charger spurred, and bolted; for the rest,
You may be sure that nothing he omitted,
Save bidding me good-by, before he quitted.
So— ticklish round the throat, to say the truth,
But looking like St. George — this hopeful youth
Rode off, and left his master sleeping sound,
Who waking, not a blessed penny found.
This master was myself,— the very one,-
And quite dumbfounded to be thus undone;
To find myself without a decent suit,
And vexed enough to lose my horse, to boot.
## p. 9736 (#144) ###########################################
9736
CLÉMENT MAROT
But for the money you had given me,
The losing it ought no surprise to be;
For, as your gracious Highness understands,
Your money, Sire, is ever changing hands.
FROM A RHYMED LETTER TO THE KING
I
AT THE TIME OF His Exile AT FERRARA — 1535
THINK it may be that your Majesty, Sovereign King, may be.
lieve that my absence is occasioned by my feeling the prick
of some ill deed; but it is not so, for I do not feel myself to
be of the number of the guilty: but I know of many corruptible
judges in Paris, who, for pecuniary gain, or for friends, or for
their own ends, or in tender grace and charity to some fair
humble petitioner, will save the foul and guilty life of the most
wicked criminal in the world; while on the other hand, for lack
of bribing or protection, or from rancor, they are to the inno-
cent so inhuman that I am loth to fall into their hands.
They are much my enemies because of their hell, which I
have set in a writing, wherein some few of their wicked wiles I
lay bare. They wish great harm to me for a small work.
As much as they, and with no good cause, wishes ill to me
the ignorant Sorbonne. Very ignorant she shows herself in being
the enemy of the noble trilingual academy [Collège de France)
your Majesty has created. It is clearly manifest that within her
precincts, against your Majesty's will is prohibited all teaching
of Hebrew or Greek or Latin, she declaring it heretical. O poor
creatures, all denuded of learning, you make true the familiar
proverb, “Knowledge has no such haters as the ignorant. ”
They have given me the name of Lutheran. I answer them
that it is not so. Luther for me has not descended from
heaven. Luther for my sins has not hung upon the cross; and
I am quite sure that in his name I have not been baptized: I
have been baptized in that Name at whose naming the Eternal
Father gives that which is asked for, the sole Name in and by
which this wicked world can find salvation.
O Lord God
grant that whilst I live, my pen may
be employed in thy honor; and if this my body be predestined
by thee one day to be destroyed by fire, grant that it be for no
light cause, but for thee and for thy Word. And I pray thee,
Father, that the torture may not be so intense that my soul may
be sunk in forgetfulness of thee, in whom is all iny trust.
(
## p. 9737 (#145) ###########################################
9737
FREDERICK MARRYAT
(1792-1848)
Hough it is nearly half a century since Captain Frederick
Marryat passed away, he still lives in his sea stories. The
circulating-library copies are dog's-eared with constant use,
and an occasional new edition testifies to the favor of a younger gen-
eration. His most ardent admirers, however, do not rank him among
the great novelists. He had no theories of fiction; he had little cult-
ure, and of philosophy or psychology he did not dream. But there
is life, energy, directness in his tales, coupled with lively narrative
and spontaneous humor which keep them
fresh and interesting. He is a born story-
teller; and the talent of the story-teller
commands attention and enchains an audi-
ence, whatever the defects of manner.
should have killed him and then killed myself; for to die after
such vengeance would be pleasanter to me than to live faithfully
with a faithless husband. ”
"As far as I see,” said Hircan, "you love your husbands only
for yourselves. If they are good . after your own heart, you love
them well; if they commit towards you the least fault in the
world, they have lost their week's work by a Saturday. The
long and the short is that you want to be mistresses; for my
part I am of your mind, provided all the husbands also agree
to it. ” — “It is reasonable,” said Parlamente, “that the man rule
as our head, but not that he desert us or ill-treat us. "
"God," said Oisille, “has set in such due order the man and the
woman that if the marriage estate is not abused, I hold it to be
one of the most beautiful and stable conditions in the world;
and I am sure that all those here present, whatever air they as-
sume, think no less highly of it. And forasmuch as men say
they are wiser than women, they should be more sharply punished
when the fault is on their side. But we have talked enough on
this subject. ”
C
us
»
## p. 9713 (#121) ###########################################
MARGUERITE D'ANGOULÊME
9713
IV
»
"IT SEEMS to me, since the passage from one life to another
is inevitable, that the shortest death is the best. I consider for-
I
tunate those who do not dwell in the suburbs of death, and who
from that felicity which alone in this world can be called felicity
pass suddenly to that which is eternal. ” “What do you call the
suburbs of death ? ” said Simortault. — “I mean that those who
have many tribulations, and those also who have long been sick,
those who by extremity of bodily or mental pain, have come to
hold death in contempt and to find its hour too tardy,- all these
have wandered in the suburbs of death, and will tell you the hos-
telries where they have more wept than slept. ”
V
(
»
((
“Do you count as nothing the shame she underwent, and her
imprisonment ? »
I think that one who loves perfectly, with a love in harmony
with the commands of God, knows neither shame nor dishonor
save when the perfection of her love fails or is diminished; for
the glory of true loves knows not shame: and as to the imprison-
ment of her body, I believe that through the freedom of her
heart which was united with God and with her husband, she did
not feel it, but considered its solitude very great liberty; for to
one who cannot see the beloved, there is no greater good than
to think incessantly of him, and the prison is never narrow where
the thought can range at will. "
VI
C
"In Good faith I am astonished at the diversity in the nature
of women's love: and I see clearly that those who have most
love have most virtue; but those who have less love, dissimulate,
wishing to feign virtue. ”
"It is true," said Parlamente, “that a heart pure towards God
and man, loves more strongly than one that is vicious, and it
fears not to have its very thoughts known. ”
S111-605
## p. 9714 (#122) ###########################################
9714
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
(1564-1593)
was a
wo months before the birth of William Shakespeare, on Feb-
ruary 26th, 1564, John Marlowe, shoemaker in the ancient
town of Canterbury, carried a baby boy, his first son, to
be baptized in the Church of St. George the Martyr. John Marlowe
clarke of Saint Marie's church, and member of the Shoe-
makers' and Tanners' Guild. He may have been a man of sufficient
means to give his son a liberal education; or some rich gentleman,
Sir John Manwood perhaps, may have interested himself in the gifted
lad. At any rate Christopher went to the King's School, Canterbury,
where fifty pupils were taught gratuitously and allowed £4 a year
each; and there he was a diligent scholar, for it is recorded that in
1579 he received an allowance of £1 for each of the first three terms.
From school he was sent to Benet- now Corpus Christi — College,
Cambridge; where he obtained the degree of B. A. in 1583, a:id that
of M. A. in 1587. His translations of Ovid's elegies were probably
begun, if not completed, during his years at the university. There
are slight indications in his poems that he may have been a soldier
for a time, and served during the Netherlands campaign. Probably,
however, he went at once to London from Cambridge,—"a boy in
years, a man in genius, a god in ambition,” as Swinburne says,- and
began his struggle for fame and fortune. Like many another young
poet, he may have gone on the stage; but it is said that he was soon
after incapacitated for acting, by an accident which lamed him. He
attached himself as playwright to a prominent dramatic company, -
that of the Earl of Nottingham, the Lord Admiral.
He was a dashing fellow, witty and daring, “the darling of the
town, and with a gift for making friends. He was a protégé of
Thomas Walsingham, and gallant Sir Walter Raleigh found him a
congenial spirit. He knew Kyd, Nash, Greene, Chapman, and very
likely Shakespeare too. Of all the brilliant group that glorify Eliza-
bethan literature, there is no more striking or typical figure than
Marlowe's own. He was the very embodiment of the Renascence
spirit, with energies all vitalized and athirst for both spiritual and
sensual satisfactions. His gay-hearted, passionate, undisciplined nature
was too exorbitant in demand to find content. To his pagan soul
beauty and pleasure were ultimate aims, orthodox faith and observ-
ances impossible. So for a few mad years he dreamed and wrote,
a
>>>
## p. 9715 (#123) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9715
loved and feasted, starved sometimes, perhaps; and then at twenty-
nine, when he had tried all possible experiences, his wild, brilliant
young life suddenly ended. His irreligious scoffing, doubtless exag-
gerated from mouth to mouth, led finally to a warrant for his arrest.
Evading this, he had gone to the small town of Deptford, and there,
June 1593, while at the tavern, he became engaged in a drunken
scuffle in which he was fatally stabbed.
Marlowe's first play, “Tamburlaine,' must have been written before
he was twenty-four. Like many of his contemporaries, he always bor-
rowed his plots; and this one he took from Foreste,' a translation
from the Spanish made by Thomas Fortescue. His treatment of it
was a conscious effort to revolutionize dramatic poetry; for «jiggling
veins of rhyming mother wits” to substitute “high astounding terms”;
and it is his great distinction that with “Tamburlaine) he established
blank verse in the English drama. From the appearance of (Gorbo-
duc) in 1562 there had been blank or rimeless verse; but the customary
form of dramatic expression was in tediously monotonous heroic coup-
lets, whether they suited the subject or not. Marlowe was the first
of the English dramatists to understand that thought and expression
should be in harmony. His original spirit refused dictation; and he
developed a rich sonorous line, the beauty of which was recognized
at once. His musical ear and poetic instinct guided him to hitherto
forbidden licenses, — variety in the management of the cæsura, femi-
nine rhymes, run-on lines, the introduction of other than iambic
measures; and thus he secured an elasticity of metre which perma-
nently enriched English poetry. His creative daring stifled a cold
and formal classicism, inaugurated our romantic drama, and served as
guiding indication to Shakespeare himself. But although certain
verses of Tamburlaine) cling to the reader's memory as perfect in
poetic feeling and harmony, the greater part of it is mere “bombast »
to modern taste. Even in Marlowe's day his exaggerations excited
ridicule, and quotations from his dramas became town catchwords.
But the spontaneous passion of his impossible conceptions gave them
a force which impressed the public. Tamburlaine was immensely
popular, and the sequel or Part Second was enthusiastically received.
Many critics since Ben Jonson have discussed “Marlowe's mighty
line » and honored its influence; and his fellow writers were quick to
follow his example.
The Faust legend, traceable back to the sixth century, finally
drifted over to England, where in ballad form, founded upon the
Volksbuch' by Spiess, it appeared in 1587, and probably soon caught
Marlowe's attention. His play of Dr. Faustus' was given in 1588,
and was very highly praised. It is said that Goethe, who thought of
translating it, exclaimed admiringly, “How greatly it is all planned ! »
((
## p. 9716 (#124) ###########################################
9716
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Compared with the harmonic unity of form and matter in Goethe's
(Faust,' Marlowe's work seems childish in construction, uneven and
faulty in expression. But there are certain passages — for example,
the thrilling passion of the invocation to Helen, and the final despair
of Faustus — of positive poetic splendor.
In the Jew of Malta' there are fine passages which show Mar-
lowe's increasing mastery of his line. But in spite of its descriptive
color and force, and keen touches of characterization, it was less
successful than “Tamburlaine,' and is perhaps most noteworthy now
for the obvious parallelism of certain scenes with those of the later
Merchant of Venice. '
(Edward II. ,' founded upon Robert Fabyan's Chronicle or Con-
cordance of Histories,' is structurally the best of Marlowe's plays,
and contains finely pathetic verse which bears comparison with that
of Shakespeare's historical dramas. The poet as he grows older
seems to take a broader, more sympathetic view of life; and there-
fore he begins to understand feelings more normal than the infinite
ambitions of Faustus and Tamburlaine, and becomes more skillful in
the portrayal of character. There is little of his earlier exaggeration.
The two shorter dramas — 'The Massacre of Paris,' and Dido,
Queen of Carthage) were written in collaboration with other play-
wrights.
No one can read Marlowe carefully without feeling that the social
influences of his time made him a dramatist, and that he was by
nature a lyric poet. He was intensely subjective, and incapable of
taking an impersonal and comprehensive point of view. He always
expresses his own aspiration for fame, or joy, or satisfaction, tran-
scending anything earth can offer. « That like I best that Aies be-
yond my reach. ” This preoccupation with imaginative ideals made
it impossible for him to understand every-day human nature. Hence
no touch of humor vitalizes his work; and hence his efforts to depict
women are always vague and unsatisfactory. He is at his best when
expressing his own passions,— his adoration of light and color, of gold
and sparkling gems, of milk-white beauties with rippling brilliant
hair. Like the other men of his time, he loved nature: delighted
in tinkling waters, wide skies, gay velvety blossoms. He is a
thorough sensualist; frankly, ardently so in Hero and Leander,'-
that beautiful love poem, a paraphrase of Musach's poem, of which
he wrote the first two sestiads, and which after his death was fin-
ished by Chapman. Every one knows the lines, written in much the
same spirit, of 'The Passionate Shepherd to his Love); "that smooth
song which was made by Kit Marlowe,” as Izaak Walton says. It
had many imitations, and a charming response from the pen of Sir
Walter Raleigh.
## p. 9717 (#125) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9717
It has been suggested that Shakespeare in his early days may have
looked enviously at the successful young Marlowe. This erring ideal-
ist aimed high, and left a lasting imprint upon English literature.
He reached fame very quickly; made more friends than enemies;
and his early death called out many tributes of love and admiration.
Michael Drayton wrote of him:-
«Next Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian Springs,
Had in him those brave translunary things
That the first poets had: his raptures were
All air and fire, which made his verses clear;
For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain. ”
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
CO
OME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, and hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
## p. 9718 (#126) ###########################################
9718
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
FROM (TAMBURLAINE)
Alarms of battle within. Enter Cosroe, wounded, and Tamburlaine
OSROE
С
Barbarous and bloody Tamburlaine,
Thus to deprive me of my crown and life!
Treacherous and false Theridamas,
Even at the morning of my happy state,
Scarce being seated in my royal throne,
To work my downfall and untimely end!
An uncouth pain torments my grieved soul,
And death arrests the organ of my voice,
Who, entering at the breach thy sword hath made,
Sacks every vein and artier of my heart.
Bloody and insatiate Tamburlaine !
Tamburlaine -
The thirst of reign and sweetness of a crown
That caused the eldest son of heavenly Ops
To thrust his doting father from his chair,
And place himself in the empyreal heaven,
Moved me to manage arms against thy state.
What better precedent than mighty Jove?
Nature that framed us of four elements,
Warring within our breasts for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds.
Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the world,
And measure every wandering planet's course,
Still climbing after knowledge infinite,
And always moving as the restless spheres,
Will us to wear ourselves, and never rest,
Until we reach the ripest fruit of all, –
That perfect bliss and sole delicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
FROM (TAMBURLAINE)
A
H, FAIR Zenocrate! - divine Zenocrate! -
Fair is too foul an epithet for thee,
That in thy passion for thy country's love,
And fear to see thy kingly father's harm,
With hair disheveled wip'st thy watery cheeks;
And like to Flora in her morning pride,
Shaking her silver tresses in the air,
## p. 9719 (#127) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9719
Rain'st on the earth resolvèd pearl in showers,
And sprinklest sapphires on thy shining face,
Where Beauty, mother to the Muses, sits
And comments volumes with her ivory pen,
Taking instructions from thy flowing eyes;
Eyes that, when Ebena steps to heaven,
In silence of thy solemn evening's walk,
Make, in the inantle of the richest night,
The moon, the planets, and the meteors, light.
There angels in their crystal armors fight
A doubtful battle with my tempted thoughts,
For Egypt's freedom and the Soldan's life;
His life that so consumes Zenocrate,
Whose sorrows lay more siege unto my soul,
Than all my army to Damascus's walls:
And neither Persia's sovereign, nor the Turk,
Troubled my senses with conceit of foil
So much by much as doth Zenocrate.
What is beauty, saith my sufferings, then ?
If all the pens that ever poets held
Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,
And every sweetness that inspired their hearts,
Their minds, and muses on admired themes;
If all the heavenly quintessence they still
From their immortal flowers of poesy,
Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive
The highest reaches of a human wit;
If these had made one poem's period,
And all combined in beauty's worthiness,
Yet should there hover in their restless heads
One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest.
But how unseemly is it for my sex,
My discipline of arms and chivalry,
My nature, and the terror of my name,
To harbor thoughts effeminate and faint!
Save only that in beauty's just applause,
With whose instinct the soul of man is touched;
And every warrior that is wrapt with love
Of fame, of valor, and of victory,
Must needs have beauty beat on his conceits :
I thus conceiving and subduing both
That which hath stooped the chiefest of the gods,
Even from the fiery-spangled veil of heaven,
## p. 9720 (#128) ###########################################
9720
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
To feel the lowly warmth of shepherds' flames,
And mask in cottages of strowed reeds,
Shall give the world to note for all my birth,
That virtue solely is the sum of glory,
And fashions men with true nobility.
FROM (TAMBURLAINE)
TASHKI
AMBURLAINE — But now, my boys, leave off and list
to me,
That mean to teach you rudiments of war:
I'll have you learn to sleep upon the ground,
March in your armor thorough watery fens,
Sustain the scorching heat and freezing cold,
Hunger and thirst, right adjuncts of the war,
And after this to scale a castle wall,
Besiege a fort, to undermine a town,
And make whole cities caper in the air.
Then next the way to fortify your men:
In champion grounds, what figure serves you best,
For which the quinque-angle form is meet,
Because the corners there may fall more flat
Whereas the fort may fittest be assailed,
And sharpest where the assault is desperate.
The ditches must be deep; the counterscarps
Narrow and steep; the walls made high and broad;
The bulwarks and the rampires large and strong,
With cavalieros and thick counterforts,
And room within to lodge six thousand men.
It must have privy ditches, countermines,
And secret issuings to defend the ditch:
It must have high argins and covered ways,
To keep the bulwark fronts from battery,
And parapets to hide the musketers;
Casemates to place the great artillery:
And store of ordnance, that from every flank
May scour the outward curtains of the fort,
Dismount the cannon of the adverse part,
Murder the foe, and save the walls from breach.
When this is learned for service on the land,
By plain and easy demonstration
I'll teach you how to make the water mount,
That you may dry-foot march through lakes and pools,
## p. 9721 (#129) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
972 1
Deep rivers, havens, creeks, and little seas,
And make a fortress in the raging waves,
Fenced with the concave of monstrous rock,
Invincible by nature of the place.
When this is done then are ye soldiers,
And worthy sons of Tamburlaine the Great.
Calyphas - My lord, but this is dangerous to be done:
We may be slain or wounded ere we learn.
Tamburlaine -
Villain! Art thou the son of Tamburlaine,
And fear'st to die, or with a curtle-axe
To hew thy flesh, and make a gaping wound ?
Hast thou beheld a peal of ordnance strike
A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse,
Whose shattered limbs, being tossed as high as Heaven,
Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes,
And canst thou, coward, stand in fear of death ?
Hast thou not seen my horsemen charge the foe,
Shot through the arms, cut overthwart the hands,
Dyeing their lances with their streaming blood,
And yet at night carouse within my tent,
Filling their empty veins with airy wine,
That, being concocted, turns to crimson blood, -
And wilt thou shun the field for fear of wounds ?
View me, thy father, that hath conquered kings,
And with his horse marched round about the earth
Quite void of scars and clear from any wound,
That by the wars lost not a drop of blood, -
And see him lance his flesh to teach you all.
(He cuts his arm.
A wound is nothing, be it ne'er so deep;
Blood is the god of war's rich livery.
Now look I like a soldier, and this wound
As great a grace and majesty to me,
As if a chain of gold, enameled,
Enchased with diamonds, sapphires, rubies,
And fairest pearl of wealthy India,
Were mounted here under a canopy,
And I sate down clothed with a massy robe,
That late adorned the Afric potentate,
Whom I brought bound unto Damascus's walls.
Come, boys, and with your fingers search my wound.
And in my blood wash all your hands at once,
## p. 9722 (#130) ###########################################
972 2
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
While I sit smiling to behold the sight.
Now, my boys, what think ye of a wound?
Calyphas - I know not what I should think of it; methinks it is a
pitiful sight.
Celebinus — 'Tis nothing: give me a wound, father.
Amyras And me another, my lord.
Tamburlaine -
Come, sirrah, give me your arm.
Celebinus Here, father, cut it bravely, as you did your own.
Tamburlaine -
It shall suffice thou darest abide a wound:
My boy, thou shalt not lose a drop of blood
Before we meet the army of the Turk;
But then run desperate through the thickest throngs,
Dreadless of blows, of bloody wounds, and death;
And let the burning of Larissa-walls,
My speech of war, and this my wound you see,
Teach you, my boys, to bear courageous minds,
Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine !
INVOCATION TO HELEN
From Doctor Faustus)
F
AUSTUS- 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.
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 Wertenberg be sacked;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colors on my plumèd crest;
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appeared to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
## p. 9723 (#131) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9723
In wanton Arethusa's azured arms:
And none but thou shalt be my paramour.
Ah, 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 eye, 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 damned.
Oh, I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down ?
See, see, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop would save my soul! – half a drop; ah, my
Christ!
Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ!
Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer! -
Where is it now ? 'tis gone; and see where God
Stretcheth out his arm, and bends his ireful brows!
Mountain and hills come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of God!
No! No!
Then will I headlong run into the earth;
Earth gape! Oh, no, it will not harbor me!
You 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 laboring clouds,
That when they vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from their smoky mouths,
So that my soul may but ascend to heaven.
The clock strikes the half-hour. ]
Ah, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon!
O God!
If thou wilt not have mercy on my soul,
Yet for Christ's sake whose blood hath ransomed me,
Impose some end to my incessant pain;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years
A hundred thousand, and — at last - be saved!
## p. 9724 (#132) ###########################################
9724
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Oh, no end is limited to damned souls!
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast ?
Ah, Pythagoras's metempsychosis! were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Unto some brutish beast! all beasts are happy,
For, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live, still to be plagued in hell.
Curst be the parents that engendered me!
No, Faustus: curse thyself; curse Lucifer
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
[The clock strikes twelve. ]
Oh, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.
[ Thunder and lightning: ]
O soul, be changed into little water-drops,
And fall into the ocean - ne'er be found.
Enter Devils
My God! my God! 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! - Ah, Mephistophilis!
[Exeunt Devils with Faustus. )
Enter Chorus
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 practice more than heavenly power permits. (Exit.
## p. 9725 (#133) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9725
FROM EDWARD THE SECOND)
K"
ING EDWARD
Who's there? what light is that?
wherefore com'st thou ?
Lightborn — To comfort you, and bring you joyful news.
King Edward –
Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks.
Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me.
Lightborn – To murder you, my most gracious lord !
Far is it from my heart to do you harm.
The Queen sent me to see how you were used,
For she relents at this your misery;
And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears,
To see a king in this most piteous state ?
King Edward -
Weep'st thou already ? List awhile to me:
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's is,
Or as Matrevis's, hewn from the Caucasus,
Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale.
This dungeon where they keep me is the sink
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.
Lightborn - 0 villains !
King Edward -
And there in mire and puddle have I stood
This ten days' space; and lest that I should sleep,
One plays continually upon a drum;
They give me bread and water, being a king:
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance,
My mind's distempered, and my body's numbed;
And whether I have limbs or no I know not.
Oh, would my blood dropped out from every vein,
As doth this water from my tattered robes.
Tell Isabel, the queen, I looked not thus
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,
And there unhorsed the Duke of Cleremont.
Lightborn Oh, speak no more, my lord! This breaks my heart.
Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile.
King Edward -
These looks of thine can harbor naught but death:
I see my tragedy written in thy brows.
Yet stay: awhile forbear thy bloody hand,
And let me see the stroke before it comes;
That even then, when I shall lose my life.
My mind may be more steadfast on my God.
## p. 9726 (#134) ###########################################
9726
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Lightborn – What means your Highness to mistrust me thus ?
King Edward -
What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus?
Lighthorn - These hands were never stained with innocent blood,
Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's.
King Edward –
Forgive my thought for having such a thought.
One jewel have I left; receive thou this. [Giving jewel. )
Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause,
But every joint shakes as I give it thee.
Oh, if thou harborest murder in thy heart,
Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul.
Know that I am a king - oh, at that name
I feel a hell of grief! Where is my crown?
Gone, gone! and do I still remain alive?
Lightborn – You're overwatched, my lord: lie down and rest.
King Edward -
But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep:
For not these ten days have these eyelids closed.
Now as I speak they fall; and yet with fear
Open again. Oh, wherefore sitt'st thou here?
Lightborn — If you mistrust me, I'll begone, my lord.
King Edward-
No, no: for if thou mean'st to murder me,
Thou wilt return again; and therefore stay. [Sleeps. )
Lightborn - He sleeps.
King Edward [waking] -
Oh, let me not die yet! Oh, stay a while!
Lightborn — How now, my lord ?
King Edward -
Something still buzzeth in mine ears,
And tells me if I sleep I never wake;
This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.
And therefore tell me, Wherefore art thou come?
Lightborn To rid thee of thy life. — Matrevis, come!
Enter Matrevis and Gurney
King Edward -
I am too weak and feeble to resist :
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul!
Lightborn - Run for the table.
King Edward -
Oh, spare me, or dispatch me in a trice.
Matrevis brings in a table. )
## p. 9727 (#135) ###########################################
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
9727
Lightborn — So, lay the table down, and stamp on it,
But not too hard, lest that you bruise his body.
King Edward is murdered. ]
Matrev'is — I fear me that this cry will raise the town,
And therefore, let us take horse and away.
Lightborn Tell me, sirs, was it not bravely done?
Gurney - Excellent well: take this for thy reward.
[Gurney stabs Lightborn, who dies. ]
Come, let us cast the body in the moat,
And bear the King's to Mortimer our lord !
Away!
[Exeunt with the bodies.
FROM THE JEW OF MALTA)
ARABAS
B*
So that of thus much that return was made;
And of the third part of the Persian ships,
There was the venture summed and satisfied.
As for those Sabans, and the men of Uz,
That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece,
Here have I purst their paltry silverlings.
Fie; what a trouble 'tis to count this trash!
Well fare the Arabians, who so richly pay
The things they traffic for with wedge of gold,
Whereof a man may easily in a day
Tell that which may maintain him all his life.
The needy groom that never fingered groat
Would make a miracle of thus much coin;
But he whose steel-barred coffers are crammed full,
And all his lifetime hath been tired,
Wearying his fingers' ends with telling it,
Would in his age be loth to labor so,
And for a pound to sweat himself to death.
Give me the merchants of the Indian mines,
That trade in metal of the purest mold;
The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks
Without control can pick his riches up,
And in his house heap pearls like pebble-stones,
Receive them free, and sell them by the weight;
Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts,
Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds,
## p. 9728 (#136) ###########################################
9728
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds,
And seld-seen costly stones of so great price,
As one of them indifferently rated,
And of a carat of this quantity,
May serve in peril of calamity
To ransom great kings from captivity.
This is the ware wherein consists my wealth;
And thus methinks should men of judgment frame
Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade,
And as their wealth increaseth, so inclose
Infinite riches in a little room.
These are the blessings promised to the Jews,
And herein was old Abram's happiness:
What more may Heaven do for earthly man
Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps,
Ripping the bowels of the earth for them,
Making the seas their servants, and the winds
To drive their substance with successful blasts ?
Who hateth me but for my happiness?
Or who is honored now but for his wealth ?
Rather had I a Jew be hated thus,
Than pitied in a Christian poverty:
For I can see no fruits in all their faith,
But malice, falsehood, and excessive pride,
Which methinks fits not their profession.
Haply some hapless man hath conscience,
And for his conscience lives in beggary.
They say
we are a scattered nation;
I cannot tell, but we have scambled up
More wealth by far than those that brag of faith.
There's Kirriah Jairim, the great Jew of Greece,
Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal,
Myself in Malta, some in Italy,
Many in France, and wealthy every one;
Ay, wealthier far than any Christian.
I must confess we come not to be kings:
That's not our fault; alas, our number's few,
And crowns come either by succession,
Or urged by force; and nothing violent,
Oft have I heard tell, can be permanent.
Give us a peaceful rule; make Christians kings,
That thirst so much for principality.
## p. 9729 (#137) ###########################################
9729
CLÉMENT MAROT
(1497-1544)
顯
HE quality that gives a peculiar charm to the verses of Marot
is the blending of gayety and gravity. With light touches
he expresses serious feeling, and the sincerity of his senti-
ment suffers no wrong from the fantastic dress of the period. His
Muse wears a particolored robe; not that of Folly, but a garment of
rich and noble patches, in which velvets and brocades oddly harmon-
ize with the homespun they strengthen and adorn. It is because
they are the velvets and brocades of the Renaissance, any scrap
or shred of which had a decorative value.
And still another material is to be observed:
the strong linen of the Reformation, whose
whiteness endues with the more pictur-
esqueness the brilliant colors.
The poetic life of Clément Marot opened
on the plane of pedantry, and closed on
that of preaching; but between these two
conditions - each of them the consequence
of the influences of the time — his own indi-
viduality asserted itself in countless humor-
ous, delicate, charming, exquisite epistles »
and "elegies,” “epitaphs” and “étrennes »
and “ballades,” “dizains,” rondeaux,” and CLÉMENT MAROT
(chansons, and in "epigrammes,” — some of
them coarse and cynical, and some to be counted among his best and
most original work. He wrote also eclogues”; and one on the death
of the queen mother, Luise of Savoie, is considered a masterpiece.
Two other kinds of composition in which he also excelled had in the
sixteenth century a great vogue: the “blazon” and the coq à l'âne. ”
The “blazons » were eulogistic or satirical descriptions of different
parts of an object; they were devoted by the gallantry of the day
to the description of a woman's eyebrow or eyes, or hand, or more
intimate parts of the body. The two “blazons” of Marot ("Du Beau
Tetin' and Du Layd Tetin') inspired a whole series of productions of
the same kind from contemporary versifiers. The pieces called “coq
à l'âne” were, before Marot, a jeu d'esprit of incoherent verses. Marot
gave them a new character by making able use of this apparent
incoherency to veil satirical attacks on formidable enemies.
XVII—609
»
»
»
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>
## p. 9730 (#138) ###########################################
9730
CLÉMENT MAROT
It has been prettily said that he was as the bee among poets, -
delicately winged, honey-making, and with a sting for self-defense.
Born in 1497, the son of a secretary of Queen Anne of Brittany,
in 1515 the youthful poet presented to the youthful King (Francis
the First) a poetical composition, the longest he ever wrote, entitled
Le Temple de Cupido. ' In 1519 he - "Le Despourveu,” as he styled
himself -- was attached to the court of Marguerite (the sister of
Francis), then the Duchesse d'Alençon. Five years later he became
one of her pensioners, and through all his after life he was cared
for and protected by her. In 1528 he was made one of the King's
household, and at this moment his powers attained their highest
point. The court, as he himself says, was his true “schoolmistress. ”
In 1532 appeared the first collection of his verses.
But for some years previously his half-heretical opinions had
drawn trouble upon him, protest as he might
« Point ne suis Lutheriste,
Ne Zuinglien, et moins Anabaptiste;
Je suis de Dieu par son fils Jesuchrist. ”
a
(
In 1526 he suffered imprisonment for a few weeks, and this imprison-
ment was the occasion of a long poem entitled Hell,' — a satire
on the tribunal and prison of the Châtelet. This «si gentil æuvre »
was first printed at Antwerp, and was reprinted some years later by
Estienne Dolet, “in the most beautiful form,” he says, and with the
most ornament possible to me, . . because in reading it I have
found it free from anything scandalous respecting God and religion,
and not containing anything against the majesty of princes. ” It was
of such crimes that Marot had been accused.
In 1531 he was again brought before the Parliament, and once
more he was summoned in 1535. The matter now looked so serious
that he thought it best to fly to Ferrara, to the court of Renée of
France, where he found himself in company with Calvin. The per-
sonal unhappiness of the Princess Renée made a profound impression
on Marot. He saw this ardent protectress of the Protestants to be
sadly in need herself of protection; and more than once, at this time
and later, he addressed to her, and to others regarding her, strains of
heartfelt compassion.
Her ducal husband Ercole d'Este — the enemy
of her friends-swept out of the city as with a besom all her pro-
tégés as often as he could; and Marot was soon obliged to make his
way to Venice.
Within the year, however, he received permission to
return to France, and was once more high in the King's favor.
But the immense, wide-spread success of a translation of some of
the Psalms he now made again roused the Sorbonne; and he was
forced to take refuge at Turin, where he died in 1544.
later his friend Estienne Dolet was burned at the stake.
Two years
## p. 9731 (#139) ###########################################
CLÉMENT MAROT
9731
Such was the outward career of this vivid, eager poet. He was
perhaps, in his relations to the world, audacious rather than bold;
in his relations to the other world, a lover of novelty rather than
of truth; as a man, somewhat vain and boastful, somewhat licen-
tious in a licentious age, - but he wrote verses that disarm criticism.
In reading the best of them, one is persuaded for the moment that
nothing is so enchanting as spontaneity, gayety, grace, quickness,
keenness, unimpassioned sentiment and natural courtesy, and the
philosophy that jests at personal misfortunes, flowing from a heart
of tenderness. Admiration of another kind also is excited in remem-
bering that this poet, whose epistles to “the great ” — to the King
and his sister - are almost in the tone of equal addressing equal, was
after all, nominally their servant, actually their dependent. A foolish
legend has prevailed that the relations between Marot and the Queen
of Navarre were of extreme intimacy. There is absolutely nothing to
justify such a belief. The attachment between them — respectful on
both sides was only one of the illustrations of the relations brought
about by the Renaissance between crowned heads and men of letters.
The long Epistles of Marot are his most interesting productions.
He was the creator of the “épître-badine,” and he has never been
surpassed in this kind of writing. The Epistle to Lyon Jamet, con-
taining the fable of the rat and the lion, is the most famous; but its
length and the exquisite quality of its style forbid any attempt at
its reproduction here. In his Epistles, as elsewhere in his work, the
best and most characteristic and the gayest verses of Marot are of
extreme difficulty to translate. Their form is their very substance:
change even the mere sound of a word, and its meaning is gone.
He, like La Fontaine,- there are many similarities between the two,
can be known only by those who can read him in the original.
The following translations can scarcely do more than show the sub-
jects of the verses selected, and the general tone.
Marot exercised no durable influence, though his style was
marked that it became a generic designation -"le style Marotique. ”
But “le style Marotique” means different things according to the
person using the phrase. Marmontel defines it as “a medley of
phrases vulgar and noble, old-fashioned and modern. ” La Harpe said
"a (style Marotique) is one that has the gay, agreeable, simple,
natural manner peculiar to Marot. ” La Harpe's definition is the truer,
that of Marmontel the one most generally accepted.
SO
)
## p. 9732 (#140) ###########################################
9732
CLÉMENT MAROT
OLD-TIME LOVE
N GOOD old days such sort of love held sway
As artlessly and simply made its way,
And a few flowers, the gift of love sincere,
Than all the round earth's riches were more dear:
IN
For to the heart alone did they address their lay.
And if they chanced to love each other, pray
Take heed how well they then knew how to stay
For ages faithful — twenty, thirty year —
In good old days.
But now is lost Love's rule they used t’ obey;
Only false tears and changes fill the day.
Who would have me a lover now appear
Must love make over in the olden way,
And let it rule as once it held its sway
In good old days.
EPIGRAM
N°
LONGER am I what I have been,
Nor again can ever be;
My bright Springtime and my Summer
Through the window flew from me.
Love, thou hast ever been my master,
I've served no other God so well;
Oh, were I born a second time, Love,
Then my service none could tell.
TO A LADY WHO WISHED TO BEHOLD MAROT
B
EFORE she saw me, reading in my book,
She loved me; then she wished to see iny face:
Now she has seen me, gray, and swart of look,
Yet none the less remain I in her grace.
O gentle heart, inaiden of worthy race,
You do not err: for this my body frail,
It is not I; naught is it but my jail :
And in the writings that you once did read,
Your lovely eyes — so may the truth avail —
Saw me more truly than just now, indeed.
## p. 9733 (#141) ###########################################
CLÉMENT MAROT
9733
THE LAUGH OF MADAME D'ALBRET
SHF
He has indeed a throat of lovely whiteness,
The sweetest speech, and fairest cheeks and eyes;
But in good sooth her little laugh of lightness
Is where her chiefest charm, to my thought, lies.
With its gay note she can make pleasure rise,
Where'er she hap to be, withouten fail;
And should a bitter grief me e'er assail,
So that my life by death may threatened be,
To bring me back to health will then avail
To hear this laugh with which she slayeth me.
FROM AN (ELEGY »
Th
Hy lofty place, thy gentle heart,
Thy wisdom true in every part,
Thy gracious mien, thy noble air,
Thy singing sweet, and speech so fair,
Thy robe that does so well conform
To the nature of thy lovely form:
In short, these gifts and charins whose grace
Invests thy soul and thee embrace,
Are not what has constrained me
To give my heart's true love to thee.
'Twas thy sweet smile which me perturbed,
And from thy lips a gracious word
Which from afar made me to see
Thou'd not refuse to hear my plea.
Come, let us make one heart of two!
Better work we cannot do;
For 'tis plain our starry guides,
The accord of our lives besides,
Bid this be done. For of us each
Is like the other in thought and speech:
We both love men of courtesy,
We both love honor and purity,
We both love never to speak evil,
We both love pleasant talk that's civil,
We both love being in those places
Where rarely venture saddened faces,
We both love merry music's measure,
We both in books find frequent pleasure.
## p. 9734 (#142) ###########################################
9734
CLÉMENT MAROT
What more is there? Just this to sing
I'll dare: in almost everything
Alike we are, save hearts;— for thine
Is much more hard, alas! than mine.
Beseech thee now this rock demolish,
Yet not thy sweeter parts abolish.
THE DUCHESS D'ALENÇON
S
UCH lofty worth has she, my great mistress,
That her fair body's upright, pure, and fine;
Her steadfast heart, when Fortune's star doth shine,
Is ne'er too light, nor elsetimes in distress.
Her spirit rare than angels is no less,
The subtlest sure that e'er the heavens bred.
O marvel great! Now can it clear be seen
That I the slave am of a wonder dread. -
Wonder, I say, for sooth she has, I ween,
A woman's form, man's heart, and angel's head.
TO THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE
M
OURN for the dead, let who will for them mourn;-
But while I live, my heart is most forlorn
For those whose night of sorrow sees no dawn
On this earth.
( Flower of France whom at the first I served,
Those thou hast freed from pain that them unnerved
Have given pain to thee, ah! undeserved,
I'll attest.
Of ingrates thou hast sadly made full test;
But since I left thee (bound by stern behest), -
Not leaving thee, - full humbly I've addrest
A princess
Who has a heart that does not sorrow less
Than thine. Ah God! shall I ne'er know mistress,
Before I die, whose eye on sad distress
Is not bent?
Is not my Muse as fit and apt to invent
A song of peace that would bring full content
As chant the bitterness of this torment
Exceeding ?
## p. 9735 (#143) ###########################################
CLÉMENT MAROT
9735
Ah! listen, Margaret, to the suffering
That in the heart of Renée plants its sting;
Then, sister-like, than hope more comforting,
Console her.
FROM A LETTER TO THE KING; AFTER BEING ROBBED
I
HAD of late a Gascon serving-man:
A monstrous liar, glutton, drunkard, both,
A trickster, thief, and every word an oath,-
The rope almost around his neck, you see, -
But otherwise the best of fellows he.
This very estimable youngster knew
Of certain money given me by you:
A mighty swelling in my purse he spied;
Rose earlier than usual, and hied
To take it deftly, giving no alarm,
And tucked it snugly underneath his arm,-
Money and all, of course, - and it is plain
'Twas not to give it back to me again,
For never have I seen it, to this day.
But still the rascal would not run away
For such a trifling bagatelle as that,
So also took cloak, trousers, cape, and hat,-
In short, of all my clothes the very best,
And then himself so finely in them dressed
That to behold him, e'en by light of day,
It was his master surely, you would say.
He left my chamber finally, and flew
Straight to the stable, where were horses two;
Left me the worst, and mounted on the best,
His charger spurred, and bolted; for the rest,
You may be sure that nothing he omitted,
Save bidding me good-by, before he quitted.
So— ticklish round the throat, to say the truth,
But looking like St. George — this hopeful youth
Rode off, and left his master sleeping sound,
Who waking, not a blessed penny found.
This master was myself,— the very one,-
And quite dumbfounded to be thus undone;
To find myself without a decent suit,
And vexed enough to lose my horse, to boot.
## p. 9736 (#144) ###########################################
9736
CLÉMENT MAROT
But for the money you had given me,
The losing it ought no surprise to be;
For, as your gracious Highness understands,
Your money, Sire, is ever changing hands.
FROM A RHYMED LETTER TO THE KING
I
AT THE TIME OF His Exile AT FERRARA — 1535
THINK it may be that your Majesty, Sovereign King, may be.
lieve that my absence is occasioned by my feeling the prick
of some ill deed; but it is not so, for I do not feel myself to
be of the number of the guilty: but I know of many corruptible
judges in Paris, who, for pecuniary gain, or for friends, or for
their own ends, or in tender grace and charity to some fair
humble petitioner, will save the foul and guilty life of the most
wicked criminal in the world; while on the other hand, for lack
of bribing or protection, or from rancor, they are to the inno-
cent so inhuman that I am loth to fall into their hands.
They are much my enemies because of their hell, which I
have set in a writing, wherein some few of their wicked wiles I
lay bare. They wish great harm to me for a small work.
As much as they, and with no good cause, wishes ill to me
the ignorant Sorbonne. Very ignorant she shows herself in being
the enemy of the noble trilingual academy [Collège de France)
your Majesty has created. It is clearly manifest that within her
precincts, against your Majesty's will is prohibited all teaching
of Hebrew or Greek or Latin, she declaring it heretical. O poor
creatures, all denuded of learning, you make true the familiar
proverb, “Knowledge has no such haters as the ignorant. ”
They have given me the name of Lutheran. I answer them
that it is not so. Luther for me has not descended from
heaven. Luther for my sins has not hung upon the cross; and
I am quite sure that in his name I have not been baptized: I
have been baptized in that Name at whose naming the Eternal
Father gives that which is asked for, the sole Name in and by
which this wicked world can find salvation.
O Lord God
grant that whilst I live, my pen may
be employed in thy honor; and if this my body be predestined
by thee one day to be destroyed by fire, grant that it be for no
light cause, but for thee and for thy Word. And I pray thee,
Father, that the torture may not be so intense that my soul may
be sunk in forgetfulness of thee, in whom is all iny trust.
(
## p. 9737 (#145) ###########################################
9737
FREDERICK MARRYAT
(1792-1848)
Hough it is nearly half a century since Captain Frederick
Marryat passed away, he still lives in his sea stories. The
circulating-library copies are dog's-eared with constant use,
and an occasional new edition testifies to the favor of a younger gen-
eration. His most ardent admirers, however, do not rank him among
the great novelists. He had no theories of fiction; he had little cult-
ure, and of philosophy or psychology he did not dream. But there
is life, energy, directness in his tales, coupled with lively narrative
and spontaneous humor which keep them
fresh and interesting. He is a born story-
teller; and the talent of the story-teller
commands attention and enchains an audi-
ence, whatever the defects of manner.
