Imatges de pàgina
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No, no; unsparing Time will proudly send
A warrant unto Wrath, that with one frown
Will all these mockeries of vain-glory rend,
And make them (as before) ungraced, unknown:
Poor idle honours, that can ill defend

Your memories, that cannot keep their own!

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW.

(1562-1593.)

THE ripening of the drama from the rudeness of former ages is the great literary glory of the reigns of Elizabeth and James. We regret that our scanty limits preclude us from an extended series of extracts from the dramatic poets; who, if not for the uniform excellence of their writings, at least for individual passages displaying the highest abilities in their art, deserve to be in some measure rescued from the oblivion which has overshadowed them. Of all the precursors of Shakespeare, Marlow seems to be allowed by universal consent the first rank in merit. Jonson's testimony to "Marlow's mighty line" is familiar. Nothing is known of this poet's family. After graduating at Cambridge, he became "an actor and writer for the stage." He was esteemed licentious in religious opinion, and some of his translations from Ovid were burnt by ecclesiastical authority. Warton, however, thinks that he owed his evil reputation to "the prejudiced and peevish puritans." He met with a tragical death in a low and disgraceful brawl.

His surviving works are six or eight tragedies, and other poems. The power of Marlow lies in the terrible. "There is," says Hazlitt, "a lust of power in his writings, a hunger and thirst after unrighteousness, a glow of the imagination, unhallowed by anything but its own energies. His thoughts burn within him like a furnace of bickering flames; or throwing out black smoke and mists, that hide the dawn of genius, or like a poisonous mineral corrode the heart." His language is harsh and rough; and his terrors interspersed with scenes of broad and low buffoonery. Few things in dramatic literature can equal the concluding scenes of Faustus and Edward II.

THE DEATH OF FAUSTUS.

Faustus-Mephostophilis.1

Meph. Ah, Faustus, now thou hast no hope of heaven.
Faust. Oh, thou bewitching fiend! 'twas thy temptation
Hath robbed me of eternal happiness.

Meph. I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice.

'Twas I, that when thou wert the way to heaven

Damm'd up thy passage; when thou took'st the book

1 The seducing spirit.-See Goethe's Faust. Both the Mephistopheles and the Faust of Marlow are very different from those of Goethe. Marlow's Faust is a low, sensual, selfish, being, the reality and extremity of whose final misery are the sole motives of our pity.

[Exit.

To view the scriptures, then I turned the leaves
And led thine eye.

What, weep'st thou ?-'tis too late. Despair!-Farewell.
Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in hell.

Enter the Good and Bad Angels.

G. Ang. Oh, Faustus, if thou hadst given ear to me,
Innumerable joys had followed thee.

But thou didst love the world:

B. Ang.

Gave ear to me,

And now must taste hell-pains perpetually.

G. Ang. Oh, what will all thy riches, pleasures, pomps,
Avail thee now?

B. Ang.

Nothing, but vex thee more;

To want in hell that had on earth such store.

G. Ang. Oh thou hast lost celestial happiness,
Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end!

[Exit.

[Exit.

Hell is discovered.

B. Ang. Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare
Into that vast perpetual torture house:

*

*

Those, that are fed with sops of flaming fire,
Were gluttons, and loved only delicates,

And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates.
But yet all these are nothing; thou shalt see
Ten thousand tortures that more horrid be.
Faust. Oh, I have seen enough to torture me.

B. Ang. Nay, thou must feel them, taste the smart of all;
He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall.

And so I leave thee, Faustus.

The clock strikes eleven.

Faust. Oh Faustus!

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live.

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Stand still, ye 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.

*

The stars move still,-time runs-the clock will strike.

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Oh, I'll leap up to heaven !-Who pulls me down?

*

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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.
Ye 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 watch strikes.

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 pain:
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 element!

Now, Faustus, curse thy self-curse Lucifer,
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
The clock strikes twelve.
It strikes it strikes! now body turn to air.

Oh, soul, be changed into small water drops,
And fall into the ocean-ne'er be found!

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field,
Or woods, and steepy mountains yield;

Where we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And then 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;
Slippers, lined choicely 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.

Thy silver dishes, for thy meat,
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall, on an ivory table, be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me and be my love.1

ANSWER TO THE ABOVE BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH.2

IF all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
Then Philomel becometh dumb,
And age complains of care to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
In fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

1 Parts of the second and third stanzas of this song are quoted in the Merry Wives of Windsor, Act iii. Sc. 1.

2 The authenticity of the poetry of Raleigh is obscured by his disguised signature. Ellis hardly relies on the genuineness of any of the specimens he has quoted. The pieces ascribed to Raleigh are all excellent. The "minor poetry" of the reigns of Elizabeth and James, indeed, abounds in beauty. We could have wished that our limits would have allowed the introduction of Sydney, Wotton, King, Sandys, &c.

Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

What should we talk of dainties, then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath bless'd and sent for food.

But, could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then these delights my mind might move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

(1563-1618.)

SYLVESTER was a "laborious but unequal writer." He styles himself a merchant adventurer. Little is known of his life. His works consist principally of translations. The character and writings of "the silver-tongued Sylvester" were greatly esteemed by his cotemporaries. The following piece of Sylvester has been often ascribed to Raleigh, and alleged to have been written by him on the evening preceding his execution. It is ascertained, however, to have been published ten years before that event.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

Go, soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand!

Fear not to touch the best;

The truth shall be thy warrant.

Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the Court,—it glows

And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the Church-it shows
What's good, and doth no good.

If Church and Court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell Potentates-they live

Acting by others' actions,

Not loved unless they give,

Not strong but by their factions.

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