The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus/Scene 13

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search

Enter Benvolio, Martino, Frederick, and

Nay sweet Benvolio let us sway thy thoughts,
From this attempt against the Conjuror.

Away, you love me not to urge me thus,
Shall I let slip so great an injury,
When every servile groome feasts at my wrongs,
And in their Rusticke gamballs proudly say,
Benvolio's head was grac'd with hornes to day?
O may these eye-lids never close againe,
Till with my sword I have that Conjuror slaine.
If you will ayd me in this enterprise,
Then draw your weapons and be resolute:
If not, depart: here will Benvolio dye,
But Faustus death shall quit thy infamy.

Nay we will stay with thee; betide what may,
And kill that Doctor if he come this way.

Then gentle Fredericke hie thee to the grove,
And place our servants and our followers,
Close in ambush there behind the trees,
By this I know the Conjuror is neere,
I saw him kneele and kisse the Emperors hand,
And take his leave laden with rich rewards.
Then Souldiers bravely fight, if Faustus die,
Take you the wealth, leave us the victory.

Come Souldiers, follow me unto the grove,
Who kills him shall have gold and endlesse love.

Exit Frederick with the Souldiers.

My head is lighter than it was by th'hornes,

But yet my heart's more ponderous then my head,
And pants until I see the Conjuror dead.

Where shall we place our selves Benvolio?

Heere will we stay to bide the first assault,
O were that damned hell-hound but in place,
Thou soone shouldst see me quit my foule disgrace.

Enter Frederick.

Close, close, the Conjuror is at hand,
And all alone comes walking in his gowne:
Be ready, then, and strike the Peasant downe.

Mine be that honour then: now sword strike home,
For hornes he gave Ile have his head anone.

Enter Faustus with the false head.

See, see, he comes.

No words, this blow ends all,
Hell take his soule, his body thus must fall.


Grone you Master Doctor?

Breake may his heart with grones: deere Fredericke see,
Thus will I end his griefes immediatly.

Strike with a willing hand, his head is off.

The Devil's dead, The Furies now may laugh.

Was this that sterne aspect, that awfull frowne,
Made the grim Monarch of infernall spirits
Tremble and quake at his commanding Charmes?

Was this that damned head, whose heart conspir'd
Benvolio's shame before the Emperour?

I thats the head, and there the bodie lies,
Justly rewarded for his villanies.

Come, let's devise how we may adde more shame
To the blacke scandall of his hated name.

First, on his head, in quittance of my wrongs,
Ile naile huge forked hornes, and let them hang
Within, the window where he yoak'd me first,
That all the World may see my just revenge.

What use shall we put his beard to?

Weele sell it to a Chimney-sweeper: it will weare out ten birchin broomes I warrant you.

What shall his eyes doe?

Weele pull out his eyes, and they shall serve for buttons to his lips, to keepe his tongue from catching cold.

An excellent policy: and now sirs having divided him, what shall the body doe?

Zounds the Devill's alive againe.

Give him his head for Gods sake.

Nay keepe it: Faustus will have heads and hands,
I call your hearts to recompence this deed.
Knew ye not Traitors I was limited
For foure and twenty yeares to breath on earth,
And had you cut my body with your swords,
Or hew'd this flesh and bones as small as sand,
Yet in a minute had my spirit returnd,
And I had breath'd a man made free from harme.
But wherefore doe I dally my revenge?
Asteroth, Belimoth, Mephostophilis,

Enter Mephosto: and other Divels.

Go horse these Traytors on your fiery backes,

And mount aloft with them as high as heaven,
Thence pitch them headlong to the lowest hell:
Yet stay, the world shall see their misery,
And Hell shall after plague their treachery.
Go Belimothe, and take this caitiffe hence,
And hurle him in some lake of mud and durt:
Take thou this other; dragge him through the woods,
Among the pricking thornes and sharpest bryers,
Whilst with my gentle Mephostophilis,
This Traytor flies unto some steepy rocke,
That rouling downe, may breake the villaines bones,
As he intended to dismember me.
Fly hence, dispatch my charge immediatly.

Pitty us gentle Faustus, save our lives.


He must needs go that the Divell drives.

Exeunt Spirits with the Knights.

Enter the Ambushed Soldiers.

1 Sold.
Come sirs prepare your selves in readinesse,
Make haste to helpe these noble Gentlemen,
I heard them parley with the Conjuror.

2 Sold.
See where he comes, dispatch and kill the slave.

Whats here? an ambush to betray my life:
Then Faustus trie thy skill: base Peasants stand;
For loe the trees remove at my command,
And stand as Bulwarks twixt your selves and me,
To shield me from your hated treachery:
Yet to encounter this your weake attempt,
Behold an Army comes incontinent.

Faustus strikes the doore, and enter a Divell playing on a drum, after him another bearing an Ensigne: and divers with weapons, Mephostophilis with fireworks; they set upon the Souldiers and drive them out.