Prologue: Chorus one

 Enter CHORUS.

     CHORUS. Not marching now in fields of Thrasymene,
     Where Mars did mate the Carthaginians;
     Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,
     In courts of kings where state is overturn'd;
     Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,
     Intends our Muse to vaunt her heavenly verse:
     Only this, gentlemen,—we must perform
     The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad:
     To patient judgments we appeal our plaud,
     And speak for Faustus in his infancy.
     Now is he born, his parents base of stock,
     In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes:
     Of riper years, to Wertenberg he went,
     Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.
     So soon he profits in divinity,
     The fruitful plot of scholarism grac'd,
     That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name,
     Excelling all whose sweet delight disputes
     In heavenly matters of theology;
     Till swoln with cunning, of a self-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 learning's golden gifts,
     He surfeits upon cursed necromancy;
     Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,
     Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:
     And this the man that in his study sits.

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