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At hand to melt, farre off in flame to burne: | The present heate of secret flame:
And lyke as tyme lyst to my cure applye, And when salt teares do bayne my breast,
So doth eche place my comfort cleane refuse. Where love his pleasent traynes bath sowen,
All things alive, that seeth the heavens with Her beauty hath the fruytes opprest,

eye,

Ere that the buddes were spronge and blowne. With cloke of night may cover, and excuse And when myne eyen dyd still pursue, Itself from travayle of the dayes unrest, The flying chase of theyre request; Save I, alas! against all others use,

Theyre greedy looks dyd oft renew, That then styrre up the tormentes of my breaste, The hydden wounde within my breste. And curse eche sterre as causer of my fate. When every loke these cheekes might stayne, And when the sunne hath eke the darke opprest, From dedly pale to glowing red; And brought the day, it doth nothing abate By outward signes appeared playne, The travayles of myne endless smarte and To her for helpe my hart was fled.

payne:

But all too late Love learneth me, For then as one that hath the light in hate, To blynd theyre eyes that else should see I wish for night more covertly to playne; My speckled chekes with Cupids hew. And me withdrawe from every haunted place, And now the covert brest I clame, Lest by my chere my chaunce appeare to playne: That worshipt Cupide secretely; And in my mynde I measure pace by pace, And nourished hys sacred flame, To seeke the place where I my self had lost, From whence no blairing sparkes do flye. That day that I was tangled in the lace, In semyng slacke, that knitteth ever most. But never yet the travayll of my thought

The Lover excuseth himself of Of better state, could catche a cause to bost:

suspected change. For if I founde sometime that I have sought, Those sterres by whom I trusted of the port,

Though I regarded not My sayles do fall, and I advaunce right nought; The promise made by me, As ankred fast, my sprites do all resort

Or passed not to spot
To stand agazed, and sink in more and more

My faith and honestie;
The deadly harme which she doth take in sport. Yet were my fansie strange,
Lo! if I seek, how do I find my sore!

And wilful will to wite;
And if I flee, I cary with me styll

If I soughte now to change
The venomed shaft which doth hys force restore A falkon for a kite.
By hast of flight; and I may plaine my fill

All men might well dispraise
Unto my self, unless this carefull song

My wit and enterprise, Print in your hart some parcell of my tene.

If I esteemed a pese
For I, alas! in silence all too long

Above a pearle in price:
Of myne olde hurt yet feele the wound but Or judged the owle in sight

grene.

The sparhauke to excell; Rue on my lufe, or else your cruel wronge

Which flyeth but in the night
Shall well appeare, and by my death be sene.

As all men know righte well.
Or if I soughte to saile,
Into the brittle porte;

Where anker hold doth faile,
Description of the restless estate of a

To such as do resort;
Lover.

And leave the haven sure
When youth had led me halfe the race

Where blowes no blustring winde; Thad Cupides scourge had made me runne;

Nor ficklenesse in ure I looked back to meet the place,

So farforth as I finde. From whence my weary course begunne:

No, think me not so lighte, And then I saw howe my desyre

Nor of so churlish kinde, Misguiding me had led the waye,

Though it lay in my mighte, Myne eyne too greedy of theyre hyre,

My boundage to unbinde: Had made me lose a better prey.

That I woulde leave the hinde For when in sighes I spent the day,

To hunt the ganders foe. And could not cloake my grief with game;

No, no, I have no minde The boyling smoke dyd still bewray,

To make exchanges soe;

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Nor yet to change at all;
For thinke it may not be
That I shoulde seke to fall
From my felicitie.
Desirous for to win,
And loth for to forgoe,
Or new change to begin;
How may all this be soe?

The fire it cannot frese,
For it is not his kinde;
Nor true love cannot lese
The constancye of minde:
Yet as sone shall the fire,
Want heate to blase and burne,
As I, in such desire,
Have once a thought to turne.

Ver e.

Edward Vere, siebenzehnter Graf von Oxford, ward 1534 geboren, zeichnete sich bereits in seiner Jugend durch glänzende Fähigkeiten aus, studirte in Cambridge, machte darauf grössere Reisen und erbte 1562 nach seines Vaters Tode dessen Titel und Besitzungen. Als Oberkammerherr von England war er einer der Richter der unglücklichen Maria Stuart. Er starb 1604. Sein Character wird von seinen Zeitgenossen eben nicht gerühmt; als Jüngling soll er ein grosser Modenarr und vorzüglich ein Nachahmer italienischer Sitten, weshalb man ihn spottweise the Mirrour of Tuscanismo nannte, als Mann dagegen ein vollendeter Höfling gewesen sein.

Seine meist lyrischen Gedichte sind nie in einer besonderen Ausgabe erschienen, sondern finden sich in gleichzeitigen Sammlungen verstreut. Sie sind voll Anmuth und Grazie, aber mitunter auch dunkel und gesucht, und geben ein treues Abbild des damals herrschenden Geschmacks.

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To marcke the choyse they make, and how they Yet for disporte we fawne and flatter bothe,

change,

To pass the tyme when nothinge else can please, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pann, And trayne them to our lure with 'subtylle othe, Unsettled still, like haggardes wild theye range, Till wearye of theyre wiles, our selves we easse : These gentlle byrdes that flye from man to man: And then we saye, when we theyre fancye trye, Who woulde not seorne and shake them from To playe with fooles, oh! what a foole was I.

the fyste, And let them flye, fayre fooles, whicho waye

they lyste.

Gascoigne.

George Gascoigne ward (wahrscheinlich zu Anfang des sechszehnten Jahrhunderts) zu Walthamstow in Essex geboren, studirte zu Cambridge und widmete sich dann der Rechtsgelehrsamkeit. Von seinem Vater wegen Jugendstreiche enterbt, gab er jedoch diese Laufbahn auf, nahm Kriegsdienste in Holland, gerieth in spanische Gefangenschaft, kehrte dann in sein Vaterland zurück und wandte sich wieder zur Jurisprudenz. Er starb 1577 zu Stamford. Ausser lyrischen Poesieen hinterliess er zwei grössere erzählende Gedichte “The fruites of Warre" und "The Steele glass” und Bearbeitungen italienischer und altgriechischer Dramen und ausländischer Dichtungen. Seine gesammelten Werke erschienen zuerst zu London 1587 unter dem Titel: The Pleasauntest Works of George Gascoigne, Esquyre, newlye compyled into one volume, that is to saye: His Flowers, Hearbes, Weedes, the Fruites of Warre, the Comedie called Supposes, the Trajedie of Jocasta, the Steele-glasse, the Complaint of Phylomene, the Story of Ferdinando Jeronimi and the Pleasure of Kenelworth Castle. Das Letztere ist ein Maskenspiel, welches 1575 zu Kenilworth vor der Königin Elisabeth aufgeführt wurde. Während seines Lebens erschien bereits eine Sammlung von Bearbeitungen ausländischer Gedichte von ihm, mit dem Titel: A Hundreth Sundrie Flowres, bound up in one small Posie etc.

Anmuth, Eleganz und Gewandtheit in Behandlung der Sprache und Form, Gedankenreichthum und eine gesunde Lebensanschauung verleihen seinen Leistungen nicht geringen Werth, doch leidet er auch an den Geschmacksfehlern seiner Zeit, namentlich an dem Streben nach Künstlichkeit und dem gesuchten Spiel mit Begriffen und Wörtern.

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Downe fell I then upon my knee
All flatte before Dame Beauties face,
And cryed, good Ladye pardon mee,
Which here appeale unto your grace,
You knowe if I have beene untrue,
It was in too much praysing you.

(Quod Beautie) well: bicause I guesse,
What thou dost meane hencefoorth to bee,
Although thy faultes deserve no lesse,
Than Justice here hath judged thee,
Wylt thou be bounde to stynte all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy lyfe ?

And though this Judge doe make suche haste, Yea Madame (quod I) that I shall, To shead with shame my guiltlesse blood: Loe Fayth and Trueth my suerties : Yet let your pittie first bee plaste,

Why then (quod shee) come when I call,
To save the man that meant you good,

I aske no better warrantise.
So shall you shewe your selfe a Queene, Thus am I Beauties bounden thrall,
And I maye bee your servaunt seene.

At hir commaunde when shee doth call.

Christopher Marlowe.

Das Geburtsjahr dieses genialen, aber zügellosen Dichters ist nicht ermittelt und man weiss nur gewiss, dass es in die Zeit der Regierung Eduards VI. fiel. Marlowe studirte 1587 in Cambridge, verliess aber die Universität und ward Schauspieler, führte indessen ein regelloses Leben, machte sich als Freigeist verrufen und starb 1593 an einer Verwundung, die er sich in einem Streit zugezogen hatte.

Unter seinen Trauerspielen, Lust's Dominion, später von Behu unter dem Titel Abdelazer or the Moors Revenge überarbeitet, Edward II., First Part of Tamburlaine, the Jew of Malta, Doctor Faustus etc. zeichnet sich vorzüglich das Letztgenannte (deutsch von Wilhelm Müller, Berlin 1818) durch Gedankenreichthum, Kraft und Phantasie sehr vortheilhaft aus und verdient unter den Bearbeitungen der Sage von Faust, als eine der ersten und bedeutendsten, aufmerksame Beachtung Ueberhaupt ist Marlowe als der begabteste Vorgänger Shakspeare's zu betrachten, aber eben so roh wie genial, gestattete ihm seine wilde Lebensweise weder die nothwendige Ruhe noch die genügende Entwickelung und Reife seiner seltenen Fähigkeiten.

Scenes

Summum bonum medicina e sanitas: from the tragical history of the Life The end of physic is our bodies' health. and Death of Doctor Faustus: by Why, Faustus; hast thou not attain'd that end? Christopher Marlowe.

Are not thy bills hung up as monuments, (Faustus in his study, runs through the circle of the Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, sciences; and being satisfied with none of them , de- And divers desperate maladies been cured?

termines to addict himself to magic.) Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. Faust. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin Couldst thou make men but live eternally, To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess; Or being dead raise men to life again, Having commenc'd, be a Divine in show, Then this profession were to be esteem'd.. Yet level at the end of every art,

Physic farewell. Where is Justinian ? And live and die in Aristotle's works.

Si una eademque res legatur duobus, Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me Alter rem, alter valorem rei, etc. Bene disserere est finis Logices. A petty case of paltry legacies. Is, to dispute well, Logic's chiefest end? Exhereditari filium non potest pater, Affords this art no greater miracle ?

nisi, etc. Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that end Such is the subject of the Institute, A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit.

And universal body of the Law.
Bid Oeconomy farewell: and Galen come. This study fits a mercenary drudge,
Be a physician, Faustus, heap up gold, Who aims at nothing but external trash,
And be eterniz'd for some wond'rous cure. Too servile and illiberal for me.

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