Act III
Scene I.—Faustus' study. Enter Wagner.
Wagner: I think my master means to die shortly.
He has made his will, and given me his wealth, his
house, his goods, and store of golden plate, besides two
thousand ducats ready coined. I wonder what he means?
If death were nigh, he would not frolic thus. He's now
at supper with the scholars, where there's such cheer as
Wagner in his life ne'er saw the like. Here he comes;
belike the feast is ended.
[Exit. Enter Faustus; Mephistophilis follows.
Faustus: Accursed Faustus! Wretch, what hast thou done?
I do repent, and yet I do despair.
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast;
What shall I do to shun the snares of death?
Mephistophilis: Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord!
Revolt, or I'll in piecemeal tear thy flesh!
Faustus: I do repent I e'er offended him!
Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord
To pardon my unjust presumption;
And with my blood again I will confirm
The former vow I made to Lucifer.
Mephistophilis: Do it, then, Faustus, with unfeignéd heart,
Lest greater dangers do attend thy drift.
Faustus: One thing, good servant, let me crave of thee:
Bring that fair Helen, whose admiréd worth
Made Greece with ten years' war afflict poor Troy;
Whose sweet embraces may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my vow,
And keep my oath I made to Lucifer.
Mephistophilis: This, or what else my Faustus may desire,
Shall be performed in twinkling of an eye.
[Enter Helen, passing over the stage between two cupids.
Faustus: Was this the face that launched a thousand ships
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!
[Kisses her.
Her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies!
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again!
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars:
Brighter art thou than naming Jupiter,
When he appeared to hapless Semele:
More lovely than the monarch of the sky,
In wanton Arethusa's azured arms!
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
Scene II.—The same. Faustus. Enter Scholars.
First Scholar: Worthy Faustus, methinks your looks are changed!
Faustus: Oh, gentlemen!
Second Scholar: What ails Faustus?
Faustus: Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then I had lived still; but now must die eternally! Look, sirs; comes he not? Comes he not?
First Scholar: O my dear Faustus, what imports this fear?
Third Scholar: 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear nothing.
Faustus: A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath damned both body and soul.
Second Scholar: Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven, and remember mercy is infinite.
Faustus: But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned; the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. He must remain in hell for ever; hell, Oh, hell for ever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever?
Second Scholar: Yet, Faustus, call on God.
Faustus: On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! On God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! O my God, I would weep! But the Devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! Yea, life, and soul! Oh, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they hold 'em, they hold 'em!
Scholars: Who, Faustus?
Faustus: Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. O gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning!
Second Scholar: Oh, what may we do to save Faustus?
Faustus: Talk not of me, but save yourselves and depart.
Third Scholar: God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus.
First Scholar: Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the next room and pray for him.
Faustus: Aye, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever you hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.
Second Scholar: Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy on thee.
Faustus: Gentlemen, farewell. If I live till morning, I'll visit you; if not, Faustus is gone to hell.
Scholars: Faustus, farewell!
[Exeunt Scholars. The clock strikes eleven.
Faustus: Oh, Faustus,
Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease, and midnight never come;
Fair nature's eyes, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day; or let this hour be but
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lente, lente, currite, noctis equi!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The Devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.
Oh, I'll leap up to heaven: who pulls me down?
See, where Christ's blood streams in the firmament!
One drop of blood will save me: O my Christ!
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ;
Yet will I call on Him. Oh, spare me, Lucifer!
Where is it now? 'Tis gone.
And see, a threatening arm, an angry brow!
Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of Heaven!
No?
Then will I headlong run into the earth;
Gape, earth! Oh, no, it will not harbour me.
Yon stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That when you vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven.
[The clock strikes the half hour.
Oh, half the hour is past; 'twill all be past anon.
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pains;
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at last be saved!
No end is limited to damnéd souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul,
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Oh, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast! All beasts are happy,
For when they die
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;
But mine must live still, and be plagued in hell.
Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
[The clock strikes twelve.
It strikes! It strikes! Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
O soul, be changed into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
[Thunder. Enter Devils.
Oh, mercy, Heaven! Look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile!
Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books. O Mephistophilis!
[Exeunt Devils with Faustus. Enter Chorus.
Chorus: Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned Apollo's laurel-bough,
That sometime grew within this learnéd 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.
FOOTNOTES:
[X] Christopher Marlowe was born at Canterbury in February, 1564, the year of Shakespeare's birth. From the King's School he went to Cambridge, at Corpus, and took his degree in 1583. For the next ten years, he lived in London; a tavern brawl ended his career on June 1, 1593. During those ten years, when Greene and Nashe and Peele were beginning to shape the nascent drama, and Shakespeare was serving his apprenticeship, most of the young authors were living wild enough lives, and none, according to tradition, wilder than Kit Marlowe; who, nevertheless, was doing mightier work, work more pregnant with promise than any of them, and infinitely greater in achievement; for Shakespeare's tragedies were still to come. That "Tamburlaine the Great," the first play of a lad of twenty-three, should have been crude and bombastic is not surprising; that "The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus" should have been produced by an author aged probably less than twenty-five is amazing. The story is traditional; two hundred years after Marlowe, Goethe gave it its most familiar setting (see Vol. XVI, p. 362). But although some part of Marlowe's play is grotesque, there is no epithet which can fitly characterise its greatest scenes except "tremendous." What may not that tavern brawl have cost the world!
[MARTIAL][Y]
[Epigrams, Epitaphs and Poems]
[I.—Satiric Pieces and Epigrams]
He unto whom thou art so partial, O reader! is the well-known Martial, The Epigrammatist: while living Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving; So shall he hear, and feel, and know it— Post-obits rarely reach a poet.—Byron.
MARTIAL ON HIS WORK
Some things are good, some fair, but more you'll say Are bad herein—all books are made that way!
ON FREEDOM OF LANGUAGE
Strict censure may this harmless sport endure: My page is wanton, but my life is pure.
THE AIM OF THE EPIGRAMS
My satire knoweth how to keep due bounds: Sparing the sinner, 'tis the sin it rounds.
ON A SPENDTHRIFT
Castor on buying doth a fortune spend: Castor will take to selling in the end!
TO A RECITER WHO BAWLED
Why wrap your throat with wool before you read? Our ears stand rather of the wool in need!
TO AN APOLOGETIC RECITER
Before you start your recitation, You say your throat is sore: Dear sir, we hear your explanation, We don't want any more!
ANSWER TO A POETASTER
Pompilianus asks why I omit To send him all the poetry that is mine; The reason is that in return for it, Pompilianus, thou might'st send me thine.
ON A PLAGIARIST
Paul buys up poems, and to your surprise, Paul then recites them as his own: And Paul is right; for what a person buys Is his, as can by law be shown!
A LOVER OF OLD-FASHIONED POETRY
Vacerra likes no bards but those of old— Only the poets dead are poets true! Really, Vacerra—may I make so bold?— It's not worth dying to be liked by you.
A GOOD RIDDANCE
Linus, you mock my distant farm, And ask what good it is to me? Well, it has got at least one charm— When there, from Linus I am free!
HOW A WET SEASON HELPS THE ADULTERATION OF WINE
Not everywhere the vintage yield has failed, Dear Ovid; copious rain has much availed. Coranus has a hundred gallons good For sale—well watered, be it understood.
THE SYSTEMATIC DINER-OUT
Philo declares he never dines at home, And that is no exaggeration: He has no place to dine in Rome, If he can't hook an invitation.
THE LEGACY-HUNTER CONSIDERS A MARRIAGE de Convenance
Paula would like to marry me; But I have no desire to get her. Paula is old; if only she Were nearer dead, I'd like it better!
WIDOWER AND WIDOW
Fabius buries all his wives: Chrestilla ends her husbands' lives. The torch which from the marriage-bed They brandish soon attends the dead. O Venus, link this conquering pair! Their match will meet with issue fair, Whereby for such a dangerous two A single funeral will do!
THE IMPORTUNATE BEGGAR
'Tis best to grant me, Cinna, what I crave; And next best, Cinna, is refusal straight. Givers I like: refusal I can brave; But you don't give—you only hesitate!
TO A FRIEND OVER-CAUTIOUS IN LENDING
A loan without security You say you have not got for me; But if I pledge my bit of land, You have the money close at hand. Thus, though you cannot trust your friend, To cabbages and trees you lend. Now you have to be tried in court— Get from my bit of land support! Exiled, you'd like a comrade true— Well, take my land abroad with you!
AN OLD DANDY
You wish, Lætinus, to be thought a youth, And so you dye your hair. You're suddenly a crow, forsooth: Of late a swan you were! You can't cheat all: there is a Lady dread Who knows your hair is grey: Proserpina will pounce upon your head, And tear the mask away.
PATIENT AND DOCTOR
When I was ill you came to me, Doctor, and with great urgency A hundred students brought with you A most instructive case to view. The hundred fingered me with hands Chilled by the blasts from northern lands; Fever at outset had I none; I have it, sir, now you have done!
APING ONE'S BETTERS
Torquatus owns a mansion sumptuous Exactly four miles out of Rome: Four miles out also Otacilius Purchased a little country home. Torquatus built with marble finely veined His Turkish baths—a princely suite: Then Otacilius at once obtained Some kind of kettle to give heat! Torquatus next laid out upon his ground A noble laurel-tree plantation: The other sowed a hundred chestnuts round— To please a future generation. And when Torquatus held the Consulate, The other was a village mayor, By local honours made as much elate As if all Rome were in his care! The fable saith that once upon a day The frog that aped the ox did burst: I fancy ere this rival gets his way, He will explode with envy first!
[II.—Epitaphs]
ON A DEAD SLAVE-BOY
Dear Alcimus, Death robbed thy lord of thee When young, and lightly now Labian soil Veils thee in turf: take for thy tomb to be No tottering mass of Parian stone which toil Vainly erects to moulder o'er the dead. Rather let pliant box thy grave entwine; Let the vine-tendril grateful shadow shed O'er the green grass bedewed with tears of mine. Sweet youth, accept the tokens of my grief: Here doth my tribute last as long as time. When Lachesis my final thread shall weave, I crave such plants above my bones may climb.
ON A LITTLE GIRL, EROTION
Mother Flaccilla, Fronto sire that's gone, This darling pet of mine, Erotion, I pray ye greet, that nor the Land of Shade Nor Hell-hound's maw shall fright my little maid. Full six chill winters would the child have seen Had her life only six days longer been. Sweet child, with our lost friends to guard thee, play, And lisp my name in thine own prattling way. Soft be the turf that shrouds her! Tenderly Rest on her, earth, for she trod light on thee.
[III.—Poems on Friendship and Life]
A WORTHY FRIEND
If there be one to rank with those few friends Whom antique faith and age-long fame attends; If, steeped in Latin or Athenian lore, There be a good man truthful at the core; If one who guards the right and loves the fair, Who could not utter an unworthy prayer; If one whose prop is magnanimity, I swear, my Decianus, thou art he.
A RETROSPECT
Good comrades, Julius, have we been, And four-and-thirty harvests seen: We have had sweetness mixed with sour; Yet oftener came the happy hour. If for each day a pebble stood, And either black or white were hued, Then, ranged in masses separate, The brighter ones would dominate. If thou wouldst shun some heartaches sore, And ward off gloom that gnaws thy core, Grapple none closely to thy heart: If less thy joy, then less thy smart.
GIFTS TO FRIENDS ARE NOT LOST
A cunning thief may rob your money-chest, And cruel fire lay low an ancient home; Debtors may keep both loan and interest; Good seed may fruitless rot in barren loam. A guileful mistress may your agent cheat, And waves engulf your laden argosies; But boons to friends can fortune's slings defeat: The wealth you give away will never cease.
ON MAKING THE BEST OF LIFE
Julius, in friendship's scroll surpassed by none, If life-long faith and ancient ties may count, Nigh sixty consulates by thee have gone: The days thou hast to live make small amount.
Defer not joys them mayst not win from fate Judge only what is past to be thine own. Cares with a linkéd chain of sorrows wait. Mirth tarries not; but soon on wing is flown. With both hands hold it—clasped in full embrace, Still from thy breast it oft will glide away! To say, "I mean to live," is folly's place: To-morrow's life comes late; live, then, to-day.
A DAY IN ROME
(First Century a.d.)
The first two hours Rome spends on morning calls, And with the third the busy lawyer bawls. Into the fifth the town plies varied tasks; The sixth, siesta; next hour closing asks. The eighth sees bath and oil and exercise; The ninth brings guest on dining-couch who lies. The tenth is claimed for Martial's poetry, When you, my friend, contrive high luxury To please great Cæsar, and fine nectar warms The mighty hand that knows a wine-cup's charms. Eve is the time for jest: with step so bold My muse dare not at morn great Jove behold.
BOREDOM, VERSUS ENJOYMENT
If you and I, dear Martial, might Enjoy our days in Care's despite, And could control each leisure hour, Both free to cull life's real flower, Then should we never know the halls Of patrons or law's wearying calls, Or troublous court or family pride; But we should chat or read or ride, Play games or stroll in porch or shade, Visit the hot baths or "The Maid."
Such haunts should know us constantly, Such should engage our energy. Now neither lives his life, but he Marks precious days that pass and flee. These days are lost, but their amount Is surely set to our account. Knowledge the clue to life can give; Then wherefore hesitate to live?
THE HAPPY LIFE
The things that make a life of ease, Dear Martial, are such things as these: Wealth furnished not by work but birth, A grateful farm, a blazing hearth, No lawsuit, seldom formal dress; But leisure, stalwart healthiness, A tactful candour, equal friends, Glad guests at board which naught pretends, No drunken nights, but sorrow free, A bed of joy yet chastity; Sleep that makes darkness fly apace, So well content with destined place, Unenvious so as not to fear Your final day, nor wish it near.
AT THE SEASIDE
Sweet strand of genial Formiæ, Apollinaris loves to flee From troublous thought in serious Rome, And finds thee better than a home. Here Thetis' face is ruffled by A gentle wind; the waters lie Not in dead calm, but o'er the main A peaceful liveliness doth reign, Bearing gay yachts before a breeze Cool as the air that floats with ease From purple fan of damozel Who would the summer heat dispel. The angler need not far away Seek in deep water for his prey— Your line from bed or sofa throw, And watch the captured fish below! How seldom, Rome, dost thou permit Us by such joys to benefit? How many days can one long year Credit with wealth of Formian cheer? We, round whom city worries swarm, Envy our lacqueys on a farm. Luck to you, happy slaves, affords The joys designed to please your lords!
THE POET'S FINAL RETREAT IN SPAIN
Mayhap, my Juvenal, your feet Stray down some noisy Roman street, While after many years of Rome I have regained my Spanish home. Bilbilis, rich in steel and gold, Makes me a rustic as of old. With easy-going toil at will Estates of uncouth name I till. Outrageous lengths of sleep I take, And oft refuse at nine to wake. I pay myself nor more nor less For thirty years of wakefulness! No fine clothes here—but battered dress, The first that comes, snatched from a press! I rise to find a hearth ablaze With oak the nearest wood purveys. This is a life of jollity: So shall I die contentedly.
FOOTNOTES:
[Y] Martial (Marcus Valerius Martialis) was born at Bilbilis, in Spain, about 40 a.d. He went to Rome when twenty-four, and by attaching himself to the influential family of his fellow Spaniards, Seneca and Lucan, won his first introduction to Roman society. The earliest of his books which we possess celebrates the games associated with the dedication of the Flavian amphitheatre, the Colosseum, by Titus, in 80 a.d. Most of his other books belong to the reign of Domitian, to whom he cringed with fulsome adulation. After a residence in Rome during thirty-four years, he returned to Spain. He died probably soon after 102 a.d. Martial's importance to literature rests chiefly on two facts. He made a permanent impress upon the epigram by his gift of concise and vigorous utterance, culminating in a characteristically sharp sting; and he left in his verses, even where they are coarsest, an extraordinarily graphic index to the pleasure-loving and often corrupt society of his day. Martial had no deep seriousness of outlook upon life; yet he had better things in him than flippancy. He wearied of his long career of attendance upon patrons who requited him but shabbily; and with considerable taste for rural scenery, he longed for a more open-air existence than was attainable in Rome. Where he best exhibited genuine feeling was in his laments for the dead and his affection for friends. With the exception of the introductory piece from Byron, the verse translations here are by Professor Wight Duff.
[PHILIP MASSINGER][Z]
[A New Way to Pay Old Debts]
Persons in the Play
Lovell, an English lord
Sir Giles Overreach, a cruel extortioner
Wellborn, a prodigal, nephew to Sir Giles
Allworth, a young gentleman, page to Lord Lovell,
stepson to Lady Allworth
Marrall, a creature of Sir Giles Overreach
Willdo, a parson
Lady Allworth, a rich widow
Margaret, Sir Giles's daughter
The scene is laid in an English county