Doctor Faustus

Doctor Faustus and Other Plays

The Complete Plays

The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe

The World of Christopher Marlowe

Christopher Marlowe: Poet & Spy

Tamburlaine Must Die

The Collected Poems of Christopher Marlowe

The Jew of Malta

Entered From The Sun: The Murder Of Marlowe

History Play: The Lives and Afterlife of Christopher Marlowe

Doctor Faustus

Doctor Faustus: With The English Faust Book

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From Wikipedia
Christopher ("Kit") Marlowe (baptised 26 February 1564 – 30 May 1593?) was an English dramatist, poet, and translator of the Elizabethan era. The foremost Elizabethan tragedian before Shakespeare, he is known for his magnificent blank verse, his overreaching protagonists, and his own untimely death.(more)

From ForCarl
Christopher Marlowe (1564 - 1593) English dramatist, poet, and translator of the Elizabethan era, born in the same year as Shakespear. The foremost Elizabethan tragedian before Shakespeare, he is known for his magnificent blank verse, his overreaching protagonists, and his own untimely death. It seems too much of a coincidence that Marlowe's death occurred only a few days after his arrest for heresy. The coroner concluded that Frizer (the man who stabbed Marlowe) acted in self-defense, and he was promptly pardoned. Since it is probable that the most crucial information about his death was never committed to writing at all, it is unlikely that the full circumstances of Marlowe's death will ever be known. There has been controvery that Marlowe and Shakespear was actually one in the same. There are arguments for and against this proposal.

“I count religion but a childish toy, And hold there is no sin but innocence.”

wee thinke not our selves discharged of the dutie wee owe to our friend, when wee have brought the breathlesse bodie to the earth: for albeit the eye there taketh his ever farwell of that beloved object, yet the
impression of the man, that hath beene deare unto us, living an after life in our memory, there putteth us in mind of farther obsequies due unto the deceased. And namely of the performance of whatsoever we may judge shal make to his living credit, and to the effecting of his determinations prevented by the stroke of death. By these meditations (as by an intellectuall will) I suppose my selfe executor to the unhappily
deceased author of this Poem, upon who knowing that in his lift time you bestowed many kind favours, entertaining the parts of reckoning and woorth which you found in him, with good countenance and liberall
affection: I cannot but see so far into the will of him dead, but whatsoever issue of his brain should chance to come abroad, that the first breath it should take might be the gentle aire of your liking: for since
his selfe had ben accustomed therunto, it would proove more agreeable and thriving to his right children, than any other foster countenance whatsoever. At this time seeing that this unfinished Tragedy happens
under my hands to be imprinted; of a double duty, the one to your selfe,
the other to the deceased, I present the same to your most favourable allowance, offring my utmost selfe now and ever to bee readie,

At your Worships disposing:
Edward Blunt.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Come live with mee, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Vallies, groves, hills and fieldes,
Woods, or steepie mountaine yeeldes.
And wee will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Sheepheards feede theyrflocks,
By shallow Rivers, to whose falls,
Melodious byrds sing Madrigalls.
And I will make thee beds of Roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Imbroydred all with leaves of Mirtle.
A gowne made of the finest wooll,
Which from our pretty Lambes we pull,
Fayre lined slippers for the cold:
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw, and Ivie buds,
With Corall clasps and Amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with mee, and be my love.
The Sheepheards Swaines shall daunce and sing, For thy delight each May-morning.
If these delights thy minde may move;
Then live with mee, and be my love.

ACCURS'D BE HE THAT FIRST INVENTED WAR!
ACCURS'D be he that first invented war!
They knew not, ah, they knew not, simple men,
How those were hit by pelting cannon-shot
Stand staggering like a quivering aspen-leaf
Fearing the force of Boreas' boisterous blasts!
In what a lamentable case where I,
If nature had not given me wisdom's lore!
For kings are clouts that every man shoots at,
Our crown the pin that thousands seek to cleave:
Therefore in policy I think it good
To hide it close; a goodly stratagem,
And far from any man that is a fool:
So shall not I be known; or if I be,
They cannot take away my crown from me.
Here will I hide it in this simple hole.

IGNOTO
LOVE thee not for sacred chastity.
Who loves for that? nor for thy sprightly wit:
I love thee not for thy sweet modesty,
Which makes thee in perfection's throne to sit.
I love thee not for thy enchanting eye,
Thy beauty, ravishing perfection:
I love thee not for that my soul doth dance,
And leap with pleasure when those lips of thine,
Give musical and graceful utterance,
To some (by thee made happy) poet's line.
I love thee not for voice or slender small,
But wilt thou know wherefore? Fair sweet, for all.

'Faith, wench! I cannot court thy sprightly eyes,
With the base viol placed between my thighs:
I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing,
Nor run upon a high stretching minikin.
I cannot whine in puling elegies.
Entombing Cupid with sad obsequies:
I am not fashioned for these amorous times,
To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes:
I cannot dally, caper, dance and sing,
Oiling my saint with supple sonneting:
I cannot cross my arms, or sigh "Ah me,"
"Ah me forlorn!" egregious foppery!
I cannot buss thy fill, play with thy hair,
Swearing by Jove, "Thou art most debonnaire!"
Not I, by cock! but I shall tell thee roundly,
Hark in thine ear, zounds I can ____ thee soundly.

Sweet wench, I love thee; yet I will not sue,
Or show my love as musky courtiers do;
I'll not carouse a health to honour thee,
In this same bezzling drunken courtesy:
And when all's quaffed, eat up my bousinglass,
In glory that I am thy servile ass.
Nor will I wear a rotten Bourbon lock,
As some sworn peasant to a female mock.
Well-featured lass, thou know'st I love thee dear,
Yet for thy sake I will not bore mine ear,
To hang thy dirty silken shoe-tires there:
Not for thy love will I once gnash a brick,
Or some pied colours in my bonnet stick.
But by the chaps of hell, to do thee good,
I'll freely spend my thrice decocted blood.

I MUST HAVE WANTON POETS

OUR CONQUERING SWORDS