THE TRAGICAL HISTORY

CHORUS. Not marching now in fields of Thrasymene,

Where Mars did mate1 the Carthaginians;

Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,

In courts of kings where state is overturn'd;

Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,

Intends our Muse to vaunt2 her3 heavenly verse:

Only this, gentlemen,—we must perform

The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad:

To patient judgments we appeal our plaud,

And speak for Faustus in his infancy.

Now is he born, his parents base of stock,

In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes:

Of riper years, to Wertenberg he went,

Whereas4 his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.

So soon he profits in divinity,

The fruitful plot of scholarism grac'd,

That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name,

Excelling all whose sweet delight disputes

In heavenly matters of theology;

Till swoln with cunning,5 of a self-conceit,

His waxen wings did mount above his reach,

And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow;

For, falling to a devilish exercise,

And glutted now6 with learning's golden gifts,

He surfeits upon cursed necromancy;

Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,

Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:

And this the man that in his study sits.