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| CHORUS. Not marching in the fields of Thrasymene, |
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| Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens;<1> |
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| Nor sporting in the dalliance of love, |
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| In courts of kings where state is overturn'd; |
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| Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds, |
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| Intends our Muse to vaunt her<2> heavenly verse: |
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| Only this, gentles,—we must now perform |
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| The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad: |
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| And now to patient judgments we appeal, |
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| And speak for Faustus in his infancy. |
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| Now is he born of parents base of stock, |
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| In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes: |
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| At riper years, to Wittenberg he went, |
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| Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. |
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| So much he profits in divinity, |
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| That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name, |
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| Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute |
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| In th' heavenly matters of theology; |
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| Till swoln with cunning, of<3> a self-conceit, |
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| His waxen wings did mount above his reach, |
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| And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; |
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| For, falling to a devilish exercise, |
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| And glutted now with learning's golden gifts, |
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| He surfeits upon<4> cursed necromancy; |
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| Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, |
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| Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: |
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| And this the man that in his study sits. |
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[Exit.]
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