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Well, Heaven is Heaven still!

And there is Nemesis, and furies,

And things called whips,

And they sometimes do meet with murderers:

They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort,

Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals, Till violence leaps forth, like thunder

Wrapped in a ball of fire,

And so doth bring confusion to them all.

JAQUES and PEDRO, servants.

Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus
At midnight sends us with our torches light,
When man and bird and beast are all at rest,
Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder.
Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind

Is much distract since his Horatio died:

And, now his aged years should sleep in rest,
His heart in quiet, like a desperate man
Grows lunatic and childish for his son:
Sometimes as he doth at his table sit,
He speaks as if Horatio stood by him.
Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth,
Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio?
So that with extreme grief, and cutting sorrow,
There is not left in him one inch of man:
See, here he comes.

HIERONIMO enters.

Hier. I pry through every crevice of each wall, Look at each tree, and search through every brake, Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame Earth,

[Exit.

Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven;
Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio.
How now! who's there, sprights, sprights?

Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir.
Hier. What make you with your torches in the dark?
Ped. You bid us light them, and attend you here.

Hier. No, no, you are deceived, not I, you are deceived:
Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now?
Light me your torches at the mid of noon,

When as the sun-god rides in all his glory;
Light me your torches then.

Ped. Then we burn daylight.

Hier. Let it be burnt; Night is a murd'rous slut,
That would not have her treasons to be seen:
And yonder pale-faced Hecate there, the moon,
Doth give consent to that is done in darkness.
And all those stars that gaze upon her face,
Are aglets on her sleeve, pins on her train:
And those that should be powerful and divine,

Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine.
Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words,
The heavens are gracious; and your miseries

And sorrow make you speak you know not what.

Hier. Villain, thou liest! and thou doest naught

But tell me I am mad: thou liest, I am not mad:

I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques.

I'll prove it to thee; and were I mad, how could I?

Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was mur

dered?

She should have shone: search thou the book:

*Tags of points.

Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a kind of

grace,

That I know, nay, I do know, had the murd❜rer seen him,
His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth,

Had he been framed of naught but blood and death;
Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what,

What shall we say to mischief?

ISABELLA, his wife, enters.

Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a doors,
O seek not means to increase thy sorrow.
Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here;
I do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques :

Not I, indeed; we are very merry, very merry.
Isa. How? be merry here, be merry here?
Is not this the place, and this the very tree,
Where my
Horatio died, where he was murdered?
Hier. Was, do not say what: let her weep it out.
This was the tree, I set it of a kernel;

And when our hot Spain could not let it grow,

But that the infant and the human sap
Began to wither, duly twice a morning

Would I be sprinkling it with fountain water :
At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore:

Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son.
It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant!
See who knocks there. [One knocks within at the door.

Ped. It is a painter, sir.

Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. Let him come in, one knows not what may chance. God's will that I should set this tree! but even so

KYD.

Masters ungrateful servants rear from naught,
And then they hate them that did bring them up.

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Hier. Wherefore? why, thou scornful villain? How, where, or by what means should I be blest? Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow? Pain. Justice, madam.

Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that That lives not in the world?

Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy

An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable.

I tell thee, God hath engrossed all justice in His hands,

And there is none but what comes from Him.

Pain. O then I see that God must right me for my murdered son.

Hier. How, was thy son murdered?

Pain. Ay, sir; no man did hold a son so dear.

Hier. What, not as thine? that's a lie,

As massy as the earth: I had a son,
Whose least unvalued hair did weigh

A thousand of thy sons, and he was murdered.
Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he.

Hier. Nor I, nor I; but this same one of mine

Was worth a legion. But all is one.

Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors; Isabella, go,

And this good fellow here, and I,

Will range this hideous orchard up and down,

Like two she-lions, 'reavèd of their young.

Go in a doors, I say.

[Exeunt.

Christopher Marlowe.

THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS.

(1589.)

How FAUSTUS fell to the study of Magic.

Born of parents base of stock

In Germany, within a town called Rhodes:

At riper years to Wirtemberg he went,
Whereat his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.
So much he profits in Divinity,

That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name,
Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute

In the heavenly matters of theology:

Till, swol❜n with cunning and a self-conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And melting, Heaven conspired his overthrow;
For falling to a devilish exercise,

And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts,
He surfeits on the cursed necromancy.

Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,

Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss.

The Death of Faustus.

FAUSTUS alone.—The clock strikes eleven.

Faust. O 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,

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