Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. I feel a hell of grief. Where is my crown? Light. You're overwatch'd, my lord, lie down and rest. Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. Edw. O let me not die; yet stay, O stay awhile. Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears, This fear is that which makes me tremble thus. Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul. [This tragedy is in a very different style from "mighty Tamburlaine." The reluctant pangs of abdicating Royalty in Edward furnished hints which Shakspeare scarce improved in his Richard the Second; and the deathscene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient or modern, with which I am acquainted.] THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. A TRAGEDY, BY Barabas, the Rich Jew, in his Counting-house, with heaps of gold before him; in contemplation of his wealth. Bar. So that of thus much that return was made; And of the third part of the Persian ships There was a venture summ'd and satisfied. As to those Samnites, and the Men of Uzz, That bought my Spanish oils and wines of Greece, Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash! Tell that, which may maintain him all his life. May serve in peril of calamity To ransome great kings from captivity. This is the ware wherein consists my wealth: And thus methinks should men of judgment frame Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, And, as their wealth increaseth, so inclose Infinite riches in a little room. But now how stands the wind? Into what corner peers my Halcyon's bill? Ha! to the east? yes: see, how stand the vances ? East and by south: why then, I hope my ships, I sent for Egypt and the bordering isles, Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, Certain Merchants enter, and inform Barabas, that his ships from various ports are safe arrived, and riding in Malta roads.—He descants on the temporal condition of the Jews, how they thrive and attain to great worldly prosperity, in spite of the curse denounced against them. Thus trolls our fortune in by land and sea, Or who is honor'd now but for his wealth? I cannot tell; but we have scrambled up Myself in Malta, some in Italy, Many in France, and wealthy every one; That's not our fault; alas! our number's few ; Or urged by force; and nothing violent, Give us a peaceful rule; make Christians kings, [Marlowe's Jew does not approach so near to Shakspeare's as his Edward II. does to Richard II. Shylock, in the midst of his savage purpose, is a man. His motives, feelings, resentments, have something human in them. "If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" Barabas is a mere monster, brought in with a large painted nose, to please the rabble. He kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just such an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been played before the Londoners by the Royal command, when a general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews had been previously resolved on in the cabinet. It is curious to see a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew (which our pious ancestors contemplated with such horror) has nothing in it now revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails, and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, write plays to flatter it: it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patronises the arts, and is the only liberal and gentlemanlike thing in Christendom.] THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS. BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 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, That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name, In the heavenly matters of theology: Till swoln with cunning and a self-conceit, And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts, Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss. Faustus, in his study, runs through the circle of the sciences; and being satisfied with none of them, determines to addict himself to magic. Faust. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess : Is, to dispute well, Logic's chiefest end? Affords this art no greater miracle? Then read no more; thou hast attained that end. A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit. Bid Economy farewell: and Galen come. Be a physician, Faustus, heap up gold, The end of physic is our bodies' health. |