Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

No end is limited to damned souls.

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?

Oh Pythagoras' Metempsycosis, 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 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 chang'd into small water drops,
And fall into the ocean; ne'er be found.

Thunder, and enter the devils.

O 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: Oh Mephistophilis.

Enter Scholars.

Since first the world's creation did begin;
Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard.
Pray heaven the Doctor have escaped the

danger.

Sec. Sch. O help us heavens, see here are
Faustus' limbs

All torn asunder by the hand of death.
Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus serv'd
hath torn him thus:
For twixt the hours of twelve and one, me-
thought,

I heard him shriek and call aloud for help;
At which same time the house seem'd all on fire
With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.
Sec. Sch. Well Gentlemen, though Faustus'
end be such

As every Christian heart laments to think on:
Yet, for he was a Scholar once admired
For wondrous knowledge in our German schools,
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial:
And all the scholars, cloth'd in mourning black,
Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.

Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have
grown full strait,

And burned is Apollo's laurel bough
That sometime grew within this learned man:
Faustus is gone. Regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendfull fortune may exhort the wise

First Sch. Come Gentlemen, let us go visit Only to wonder at unlawful things:

Faustus,

For such a dreadful night was never seen

Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practise more than heavenly power permits.

Peele.

Ueber das Leben dieses Mannes ist weiter Nichts bekannt, als dass er, ein Vorgänger Shakspeare's, 1579 Magister der freien Künste in Oxford und dann Stadtpoet in London wurde und noch zu seines grossen Nachfolgers Zeit lebte, jedoch vor 1597 starb. Er hinterliess fünf Stücke: The Arraignment of Paris, 1584 gedruckt; Edward I. (4o, 1593) The Old Wive's Tale (4o, 1595) King David and Fair Bethsabe, nach seinem Tode 1599 gedruckt, und The Turkish Mahomet and Hyron the Fair Greek, das nie gedruckt wurde und verloren gegangen ist, so wie mehrere von 1589 bis 1593 verfasste Gelegenheitsgedichte. David and Bethsabe findet sich abgedruckt im 2. Bande von Dodsley's Collection of old plays.

Peele war roh aber genial, voller Fehler aber auch voll guter Eigenschaften als Dichter und besass für seine Zeit eine seltene Herrschaft über Sprache und Form; eigentliches Interesse bietet er jedoch nur durch den Vergleich mit seinem grossen Nachfolger.

Scene from the Love of King David and fair Bethsabe, with the Tragedy of Abs alom: by George Peele.

(Bethsabe with her maid bathing she sings and David sits alone viewing her.)

The song.

Hot sun,
cool fire, temper'd with sweet air,
Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair,
Shine sun, burn fire, breathe air and ease me,
Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me;
Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning,
Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning.
Let not my beauty's fire
Enflame unstaid desire,
Nor pierce any bright eye
That wandereth lightly.

Bethsabe. Come gentle Zephyr trick'd with
those perfumes

That erst in Eden sweetned Adam's love,
And stroke my bosom with the silken fan:
This shade (sun - proof) is yet no proof for thee,
Thy body smoother than this waveless spring,
And purer than the substance of the same,
Can creep through that his lances cannot pierce.
Thou and thy sister soft and sacred Air,
Goddess of life and governess of health,
Keeps every fountain fresh and arbor sweet;
No brazen gate her passage can repulse,
Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath
Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes,
And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes,
To play the wantons with us through the leaves.

David. What tunes, what words, what looks,
what wonders pierce

My soul, incensed with a sudden fire!
What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise,
Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame!

Fair Eva, plac'd in perfect happiness,

Struck with the accents of Archangels' tunes, Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts,

Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine.
May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant
weight,

Be still enamel'd with discolour'd flowers;
That precious fount bear sand of purest gold;
And for the pebble, let the silver streams
That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source,
Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites;
The brim let be imbrac'd with golden curls
Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make
For joy to feed the fount with their recourse;
Let all the grass that beautifies her bower
Bear manna every morn instead of dew;
Or let the dew be sweeter far than that
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,
Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's beard.
Enter Cusay.

See Cusay, see the flower of Israel,
The fairest daughter that obeys the king
In all the land the Lord subdued to me.
Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well,
Brighter than inside bark of new-hewn cedar,
Sweeter than flames of fine perfumed myrrh;
And comelier than the silver clouds that dance
On Zephyr's wings before the king of Heaven.
Cusay. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife
Urias, now at Rabath siege with Joab?

David. Go now and bring her quickly to
the King;

Tell her, her graces hath found grace with him.
Cusay. I will my Lord.
David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in Da-
vid's bower

In water mix'd with purest almond flower,
And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids,
Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires,
Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers,
To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings,

Lending her praise - notes to the liberal heavens, That carries pleasures to the hearts of Kings.

Raleigh.

Sir Walter Raleigh ward 1552 zu Hayes-Farm in Devonshire geboren, studirte in Oxford und widmete sich dann der Rechtswissenschaft. Die bewegte damalige Zeit bewog ihn jedoch, den Studien zu entsagen und Kriegsdienste zu nehmen. Nachdem er sich in Frankreich, den Niederlanden und Irland durch seine Tapferkeit ausgezeichnet, kehrte er nach England zurück und erwarb sich die Gunst der Königin Elisabeth. Unter ihrer Regierung that er sich wiederholt

hervor durch seine Theilnahme an der Zerstörung der Armada, die Colonisation von Virginien, dem er der jungfräulichen Monarchie zu Ehren diesen Namen gab, so wie durch viele andere grossartige Unternehmungen mehr, weshalb er auch von ihr mit Würden und Ehren geschmückt wurde und viele wichtige Aemter bekleidete. Mit ihrem Tode erlosch aber sein Stern; ihr Nachfolger Jacob I. hasste ihn und liess ihn, wegen nichtiger Gründe, absetzen und zum Tode verdammen. Das Urtheil wurde jedoch in Kerkerstrafe verwandelt und Raleigh musste zwölf Jahre lang im Tower schmachten. Endlich erhielt er seine Freiheit wieder und den Auftrag, das Gold aus den Minen von Guiana auszuführen. Diese Expedition missglückte jedoch und in Folge dessen wurde er bei seiner Rückkehr nach England von Neuem gefänglich eingezogen, und da man wegen seines Betragens in Guiana Nichts auf ihn zu bringen vermochte, in Kraft des früheren Todesurtheils am 24. October 1618 enthauptet. Männlich erlag er seinem Schicksal.

Neben mehreren andern Schriften hinterliess er ein grosses Werk in Prosa, eine Weltgeschichte (History of the World. London 1552 in Folio), eine jetzt zwar veraltete, für ihre Zeit aber höchst verdienstliche Arbeit. Als Dichter hat er sich vorzüglich durch eben so originelle als anmuthige Lieder ausgezeichnet; seine poetischen Leistungen erschienen jedoch nicht besonders, sondern finden sich in meist gleichzeitigen Sammlungen verstreut.

The Shepheard to the Flowers.

Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched beare
Within your palie faces,

Upon the gentle wing of some calme breathing
winde,

That playes amidst the plaine

If by the favour of propitious starres you gaine
Such grace as in my ladie's bosome place to finde,
Be proud to touch those places!

And when her warmth your moysture forth doth
weare,

Whereby her daintie parts are sweetly fed, Your honours of the flowrie meades I pray,

You pretty daughters of the earth and sunne, With milde and seemely breathing straite display My bitter sighs, that have my hart undone!

Vermillion roses, that with new dayes rise,
Display your crimson folds fresh looking faire,
Whose radiant bright disgraces

The rich adorned rayes of roseate rising morne !
Ah, if her virgin's hand

The Shepheards Description of Love.

Melibeus.

Shepheard, what's Love, I pray thee tell?
Faustus.

It is that fountaine, and that well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell:
It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell,

That toules all into heaven or hell:
And this is Love, as I heard tell.

Melibeus.

Yet what is Love, I prethee say?
Faustus.

It is a worke on holy - day,
It is December match'd with May,
When lustie bloods in fresh aray

Heare ten months after of the play:
And this is Love, as I heare say.

Melibeus.

Do pluck your purse, ere Phoebus view the land, Yet what is Love, good Shepheard saine?
And vaile your gracious pompe in lovely Na-

ture's scorne,

If chaunce my mistresse traces
Fast by your flowers to take the Sommer's ayre,
Then wofull blushing tempt her glorious eyes
To spread their teares, Adonis' death reporting,
Whose drops of bloud, within your leaves con-
sorting,

Report fair Venus' moanes to have no end!
Then may Remorse, in pittying of my smart,
Drie up my teares, and dwell within her hart!

Faustus.

It is a sun-shine mixt with raine;
It is a tooth- ach; or like paine :
It is a game, where none doth gaine.

The lass saith no, and would full faine:
And this is Love, as I heare say.

Melibeus.

Yet what is Love, good Shepheard show?
Faustus.

A thing that creepes, it cannot goe;
A prize that passeth to and fro,

A thing for one, a thing for moe,

And he that prooves shall find it so,
And, Shepheard, this is Love I trow.

The silent Lover.

Passions are likened best to floods and streames;
The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb.
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

The bottom is but shallow whence they come:

A Vision upon the Fairy Queen
Methought I saw the grave, where Laura lay
Within that temple, where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and, passing by that way,

To see that buried; dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love, and fairer Virtue kept:
All suddenly I saw the Fairy Queen;
At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not
seen;

For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse:
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,

They that are rich in words must needs discover, And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did They are but poor in that which makes a lover.

Wrong not, sweet mistresse of my heart,
The conquest of thy beautie,

With thinking that he feels no smart,
Who sues for no compassion!

Since, if my plaints were not t' approve

The conquest of thy beautie,

It comes not from defect of love,
But fear t' exceed my dutie.

For, knowing that I sue to serve
A sainte of such perfection,
As all desire, but none deserve
A place in her affection,

I rather choose to want reliefe

Than venture the revealing: Where glory recommends the griefe, Despaire disdains the healing!

Thus those desires that boil so high
In any mortal lover,

When Reason cannot make them die,
Discretion them must cover.

Yet when Discretion doth bereave
The plaintes that I should utter,
Then your Discretion may perceive
That Silence is a Suitor.

Silence in Love bewrays more woe

Than words, though nere so witty; A beggar that is dumb, you know,

May challenge double pitty!

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!
My love for secret passion;

He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion!

pierce:

Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief,
And curs'd the access of that celestial thief!

The Lye.

Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
Upon a thankelesse arrant;
Feare not to touche the best,
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Goe, since I needs must dye,
And give the world the lye.

Goe, tell the court it glowes
And shines like rotten wood;
Goe, tell the church it showes
What's good, and doth no good;
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lye.

Tell potentates they live
Acting by others actions;
Not lov'd unlesse they give,
Not strong but by their factions;
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lye.

Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practise onely hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lye.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost
Seek nothing but commending;
And if they make reply,
Spare not to give the lye.

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

Spenser.

Edmund Spenser, der erste grosse epische Dichter der Engländer, ward zu London, wahrscheinlich im Jahre 1553 geboren. Er studirte in Cambridge, verliess aber diese Universität bald wieder und widmete sich nun poetischen Leistungen. Seine erste Arbeit war "The Shepherds Calendar;' sie erwarb ihm die Gunst des Sir Philipp Sidney und der Königin Elisabeth, doch war ihm der Erstere förderlicher als die Monarchin, da ihm hier der alte Staatsmann Burleigh, der überhaupt keine Dichter leiden konnte, stets im Wege stand. Nachdem er eine zeitlang in ländlicher Zurückgezogenheit gelebt, begab er sich wieder nach London und begleitete dann den Grafen Leicester als Secretair nach Irland. Hier erhielt er zur Belohnung für seine Dienste, ein kleines Landgut, wo er sein grosses Gedicht, "The Faerie Queene," vollendete. Bald nachher brach eine Empörung in Irland aus, die ihm sein ganzes Vermögen und eins seiner Kinder raubte und ihn zwang, nach England zurückzukehren. Er lebte hier noch zwölf Jahre, wahrscheinlich in Armuth und Entsagung, denn Alles, was die Königin für ihn that, war, dass sie ihm eine jährliche Pension von 50 1. st. bewilligte. Seine irdischen Ueberreste wurden nach seinem 1598 erfolgten Tode in der Westminster - Abtei neben Chaucer beigesetzt und ihm durch den Grafen von Essex ein Monument errichtet.

Als Dichter zeichnet sich Spenser durch reiche schöpferische Einbildungskraft, tiefes Gefühl und eine seltene Herrschaft über Sprache und Form höchst bedeutend aus. Leider blieb sein grosses Gedicht, die Feenkönigin, für das er eine eigene zehnzeilige Strophe, die nach ihm benannte Spenser-Stanze erfand, unvollendet, da die letzte Hälfte desselben verloren ging. Die beste Aus

« AnteriorContinuar »