THE
TRAGEDIE OF
Doctor Faustus.
Enter Chorus.
NOt marching in the fields of Tharsimen,
Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens,
Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,
In Courts of Kings, where state is over-turn'd:
Nor in the pompe of proud audacious deeds,
Intends our Muse to vaunt his heavenly verse:
Onely this (Gentles) we must now performe,
The forme of Faustus fortunes, good or bad:
And now to patient judgements we appeale,
And speak for Faustus in his infancy.
Now is he borne of parents base of stocke,
In Germany, within a towne cal'd Rhodes.
At riper yeares to Wittenberge he went,
Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.
So much he profits in Divinity,
That shortly he was grac'd with Doctors name,
Excelling all, and sweet can dispute
In th'heavenly matters of Theologie:
Till swolne with cunning, and a selfe conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow:
For falling to a devilish exercise,
And glutted now with learnings golden gifts,
He surfets on the curst Necromancy.
