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No end is limited to damned souls.

Since first the world's creation did begin; Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard. Or why is this immortal that thou hast? Pray heaven the Doctor have escaped the Oh Pythagoras' Metempsycosis, were that true,

danger. This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'a Sec. Sch. O help us heavens, see here are Into some brutish beast.

Faustus' limbs All beasts are happy, for when they die, All torn asunder by the hand of death. Their souls are soon dissoly'd in elements : Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus serv'd But mine must live still to be plagued in hell.

hath torn him thus : Curst be the parents that engender'd me: For twixt the hours of twelve and one, me. No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer,

thought, That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. I heard him shriek and call aloud for help;

At which same time the house seem'd all on fire The clock strikes twelve.

With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.

Sec. Sch. Well Gentlemen, though Faustus' It strikes, it strikes; now, body, turn to air,

end be such Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.

As every Christian heart laments to think on: O soul, be chang'd into small water drops,

Yet, for he was a Scholar once admired And fall into the ocean; ne'er be found.

For wondrous knowledge in our German schools,

We'll give his mangled limbs due burial:
Thunder, and enter the devils.

And all the scholars, cloth'd in mourning black, O mercy heaven, look not so fierce on me.

Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile : Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have Ugly hell gape not; come not Lucifer :

grown full strait, I'll burn my books: Oh Mephistophilis.

And burned is Apollo's laurel bough
That sometime grew within this learned man:

Faustus is gone. Regard his hellish fall,
Enter Scholars.

Whose fiendfull fortune may exhort the wise First Sch. Come Gentlemen, let us go visit Only to wonder at unlawful things:

Faustus, Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits For such a dreadful night was never seen 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. (4", 1593) The Old Wive's Tale (4°, 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.

Shine sun,

Scene

Struck with the accents of Archangels' tunes, from the Love of King David and fair Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's Bethsabe, with the Tragedy of Absa

thoughts, lom: by George Peele.

Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine.

May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant (Bethsabe with her maid bathing: she sings and Da

weight,
vid sits alone viewing her.)

Be still enamel'd with discolour'd flowers;
The song.

That precious fount bear sand of purest gold; Hot sun, cool fire, temper'd with sweet air,

And for the pebble, let the silver streams Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair, That pierce earth’s bowels to maintain the source, burn fire, breathe air and ease me,

Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites; Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me; The brim let be imbrac'd with golden curls Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning, Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make Make not my glad cause, cause of mourning.

For joy to feed the fount with their recourse; Let not my beauty's fire

Let all the grass that beautifies her bower Enflame unstaid desire,

Bear manna every morn instead of dew; Nor pierce any bright eye

Or let the dew be sweeter far than that That wandereth lightly.

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,

Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's beard. Bethsabe. Come gentle Zephyr trick'd with those perfumes

Enter Cusay. That erst in Eden sweetned Adam's love,

See Cusay, see the flower of Israel, And stroke my bosom with the silken fan : The fairest daughter that obeys the king This shade (sun - proof) is yet no proof for thee, In all the land the Lord subdued to me. Thy body smoother than this waveless spring, Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well, And purer than the substance of the same, Brighter than inside bark of new - hewn cedar, Can creep through that his lances cannot pierce. Sweeter than flames of fine perfumed myrrh; Thou and thy sister soft and sacred Air, And comelier than the silver clouds that dance Goddess of life and governess of health, On Zephyr's wings before the king of Heaven. Keeps every fountain fresh and arbor sweet; Cusay. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife No brazen gate her passage can repulse, Urias, now at Rabath siege with Joab ? Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath

David. Go now and bring her quickly to Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes,

the King; And on thy wings bring delicate perfumes, Tell her, her graces hath found grace with him. To play the wantons with us through the leaves. Cusay. I will my Lord.

David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in DaDavid. What tunes, what words, what looks,

vid's bower what wonders pierce In water mix'd with purest almond flower, My soul, incensed with a sudden fire!

And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids, What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise, Bright Bethsabe gives earth to my desires, Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame!

Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers, Fair Eva, plac'd in perfect happiness,

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. The Shepheards Description of Love. Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread

Melibeus.
Your gracious odours, which you couched beare
Within your palie faces,

Shepheard, what's Love, I pray thee tell? Upon the gentle wing of some calme breathing

Faustus.
winde,
That playes amidst the plaine

It is that fountaine, and that well,
If by the favour of propitious starres you gaine Where pleasure and repentance dwell:
Such grace as in my ladie's bosome place to finde, It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell,
Be proud to touch those places !

That toules all into heaven or hell:
And when her warmth your moysture forth doth

And this is Love, as I heard tell.
weare,

Melibeus.
Whereby her daintie parts are sweetly fed,
Your honours of the flowrie meades I pray, Yet what is Love, I prethee say?
You pretty daughters of the earth and sunne,

Faustus.
With milde and seemely breathing straite display
My bitter sighs, that have my hart undone! It is a worke on holy - day,

It is December match'd with May,
Vermillion roses, that with new dayes rise, When lustie bloods in fresh aray
Display your crimson folds fresh looking faire, Heare ten months after of the play:
Whose radiant bright disgraces

And this is Love, as I heare say.
The rich adorned rayes of roseate rising morne!
Ah, if her virgin's hand

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,

Faustus.
If chaunce my mistresse traces

- shine mixt with raine; Fast by your flowers to take the Sommer's ayre, It is a sunThen wofull blushing tempt her glorious eyes

It is a tooth - ach; or like paine : To spread their teares, Adonis' death reporting,

It is a game, where none doth gaine. Whose drops of bloud, within your leaves con

The lass saith no, and would full faine : sorting,

And this is Love, as I heare say.
Report fair Venus' moanes to have no end!

Melibeus.
Then may Remorse, in pittying of my smart,
Drie up my teares, and dwell within her hart ! 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,

A Fisioa apoa the Fairy Queen And he that prooves shall find it so, And, Shepheard, this is Love I trow.

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;
The silent Lover.

At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, Passions are likened best to floods and streames;! And, from thenceforth, those Graces were not

seen; The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb. I

For they this Queen attended; in whose stead So, when affections yield discourse, it seems

Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse: The bottom is but shallow whence they come : 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.

pierce:

Where Homer's spright did tremble all for grief, Wrong not, sweet mistresse of my heart, The conquest of thy beautie,

And curs'd the access of that celestial thief!
With thinking that he feels no smart,

Who sues for no compassion!
Since, if my plaints were not t' approve

The Lye.
The conquest of thy beautie,
It comes not from defect of love,

Goe, soule, the bodies guest,
But fear t exceed my dutie.

Upon a thankelesse arrant;

Feare not to touche the best, For, knowing that I sue to serve

The truth shall be thy warrant: A sainte of such perfection,

Goe, since I needs must dye, As all desire, but none deserve

And give the world the lye. A place in her affection,

Goe, tell the court it glowes I rather choose to want reliefe

And shines like rotten wood; Than venture the revealing:

Goe, tell the church it showes Where glory recommends the griefe,

What's good, and doth no good; Despaire disdains the healing!

If church and court reply,

Then give them both the lye.
Thus those desires that boil so high
In any mortal lover,

Tell potentates they live
When Reason cannot make them die,

Aeting by others actions; Discretion them must cover.

Not lov'd unlesse they give,

Not strong but by their factions; Yet when Discretion doth bereave

If potentates reply,
The plaintes that I should utter,

Give potentates the lye.
Then your Discretion may perceive
That Silence is a Suitor.

Tell men of high condition

That rule affairs of state, Silence in Love bewrays more woe

Their purpose is ambition, Than words, though nere so witty;

Their practise onely hate; A beggar that is dumb, you know,

And if they once reply, May challenge double pitty!

Then give them all the lye.

Then wrong not, dearest to my heart!

My love for secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,

And sues for no compassion!

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.

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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 Élisabeth, 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 l. 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

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