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No. 1. THE ATHEIST’S TRAGEDIE. - Christopher Marlowe, The Works of Christopher Marlowe, vol. 3 (Poems) [1598]

Edition used:

The Works of Christopher Marlowe, ed. A.H. Bullen (London: John C. Nimmo, 1885). Vol. 3.

Part of: The Works of Christopher Marlowe, 3 vols.

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No. 1.
THE ATHEIST'S TRAGEDIE1 .

  • All you that have got eares to heare, Now listen unto mee;
  • Whilst I do tell a tale of feare; A true one it shall bee:
  • A truer storie nere was told, As some alive can showe;
  • 'Tis of a man in crime grown olde, Though age he did not know.
  • This man did his owne God denie And Christ his onelie son,
  • And did all punishment defie, So he his course might run.
  • Both day and night would he blaspheme, And day and night would sweare,
  • As if his life was but a dreame, Not ending in dispaire.
  • A poet was he of repute, And wrote full many a playe,
  • Now strutting in a silken sute, Then begging by the way.
  • He had alsoe a player beene Upon the Curtaine-stage,
  • But brake his leg in one lewd scene, When in his early age.
  • He was a fellow to all those That did God's laws reject,
  • Consorting with the Christians' foes And men of ill aspect.
  • Ruffians and cutpurses hee Had ever at his backe,
  • And led a life most foule and free, To his eternall wracke.
  • He now is gone to his account, And gone before his time,
  • Did not his wicked deedes surmount All precedent of crime.
  • But he no warning ever tooke From others' wofull fate,
  • And never gave his life a looke Untill it was to late.
  • He had a friend, once gay and greene,1 Who died not long before,
  • The wofull'st wretch was ever seen, The worst ere woman bore,
  • Unlesse this Wormall2 did exceede Even him in wickednesse,
  • Who died in the extreemest neede And terror's bitternesse.
  • Yet Wormall ever kept his course, Since nought could him dismay;
  • He knew not what thing was remorse Unto his dying day.
  • Then had he no time to repent The crimes he did commit,
  • And no man ever did lament For him, to dye unfitt.
  • Ah, how is knowledge wasted quite On such want wisedome true,
  • And that which should be guiding light But leades to errors newe!
  • Well might learnd Cambridge oft regret He ever there was bred:
  • The tree she in his mind had set Brought poison forth instead.
  • His lust was lawlesse as his life, And brought about his death;
  • For, in a deadlie mortall strife, Striving to stop the breath
  • Of one who was his rivall foe, With his owne dagger slaine,
  • He groand, and word spoke never moe, Pierc'd through the eye and braine.
  • Thus did he come to suddaine ende That was a foe to all,
  • And least unto himselfe a friend, And raging passion's thrall.
  • Had he been brought up to the trade His father follow'd still,
  • This exit he had never made, Nor playde a part soe ill.
  • Take warning ye that playes doe make, And ye that doe them act;
  • Desist in time for Wormall's sake, And thinke upon his fact.
  • Blaspheming Tambolin must die, And Faustus meete his ende;
  • Repent, repent, or presentlie To hell ye must discend.
  • What is there, in this world, of worth, That we should prize it soe?
  • Life is but trouble from our birth, The wise do say and know.
  • Our lives, then, let us mend with speed, Or we shall suerly rue
  • The end of everie hainous deede, In life that shall insue.

Finis. Ign.

[1]In the Introduction I have expressed my opinion that this ballad is a forgery.

[1]We are to suppose an allusion to Robert Greene.

[2]The anagram of Marlow.