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The queen sent me to see how you were us'd,
For she relents at this your misery;
And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears,
To see a king in this most piteous state?
ED. Weep'st thou already ? List awhile to mic,
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.
LIGHT. Oh villains !
Ed. And there, in mire and puddle have I stood This ten-day space : and lest that I should sieep, 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 distemper'd and my body's numb'd, And whether I have limbs or no I know not. Oh would my blood drop out from every vein, As does this water from my tatter'd 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. [heart,
LIGHT. O speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my Lie on this bed and rest yourself awhile.
ED. Those looks of thine can harbour 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 stedfast on my God. [thus ?
LIGHT. What means your highness to mistrust me Ed. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus ?
LIGHT. These hands were never stain'd with innocent Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. [blood,
Ed. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. One jewel have I left-receive thou this. Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, But every joint shakes as I give it thee. Oh, if thou harbour'st 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 remain ?
[rest. LIGHT. You' e overwatch'd, my lord: lie down and
ED. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; For not these ten days have these eyelids clos'd. Now, as I speak, they fall, and yet with fear Open again. O wherefore sitt'st thou here?
Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord.
Ed. No, no: for if thou mean'st to murder me,
Thou wilt return again, and therefore stay.
LIGHT. He sleeps.
ED. O let me not die yet, oh stay awhile.
LIGIT. How now, my lord ?
ED. 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 ?
LIGHT. To rid thee of thy life: Matrevis, come.
Enter Matrevis and Gurney.
Ed. I am too weak and feeble to resist :
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul.
3. TIE DEATH OF FAUSTUS.
The clock strikes eleven. Faust. Oh Faustus! now thou hast but one bare hour Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heav'n, (to live. 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. 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: oh 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 nie,
Aud hide me from the heavy wrath of heav'n!
No!—Then will I headlong run into the earth :
Gape, earth: O no, it will not harbour me.
You stars, that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted Heaven and Hell,
Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist,
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That, when yo 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 be all 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,
An hundred thousand, and at last be sav'd.
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 chang'd
Into some brutish beast.
All beasts are happy, for, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements;
But mine must live still, to be plagued in hell.
Curst be the parents that engender'd me!
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer!
That hath depriv’d thee of the joys of heav'n.
The clock strikes twelve.
It strikes ! it strikes ! now body turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to Hell.
O soul ! be chang’d into small water-drops.
And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found.
Oh! mercy, heav'n! look not so fierce on me,
Adders and serpents! let me breathe awhile !
Ugly hell! gape not-come not, Luciler!
4. TIIE SIEPHERD'S SONG.
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, and hills, and fis!ds,
Flood, or steepy mountain yields.
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 a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
And shoes 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.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May morning;
If joys like these thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
XIV. SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
1. ANSWER TO THE SHEPIIERD'S SONG.
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.
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 food 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..
2. LINES COMPOSED THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS
E'en such is Time, which takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.
1. THE BUTTERFLY. The woods, the rivers, and the meadows green,
With his air-cutting wings he measur'd wide Ne did he leave the mountains bare unseen,
Nor the rank grassy fen's delight untried. But none of these, however sweet they been,
Mote please his fancy, nor him cause abide. His choiceful sense with every change doth flit. No common things may please a wavering wit,