Anonymous · published 1608 · first performed or written 1602 [1599-1604] (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men · Globe unassigned nearest T56 Magic, spells and conjuring · 532 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T56: magic, faustus, charms, charm, conjure, spirits, skill, ho, power, spells.
YOur silence and attention worthy friends, (sense, That your free spirits may with more pleasing Relish the life of this our active scene, To which intent, to calm this murmuring breath, We ring this round with our invoking spells, If that your listening ears be yet prepared To entertain the subject of our play, Lend us your patience. 'tis Peter Fabell a renowned Scholar, Whose fame hath still been hitherto forgot By all the writers of this latter age. In Middlesex his birth and his abode, Not full seven mile from this great famous City That for his fame in sleights and magic won, Was called the merry Fiend of Edmonton. If any here make doubt of such a name, In Edmonton yet fresh unto this day, Fixed in the wall of that old ancient Church His monument remaineth to be seen; His memory yet in the mouths of men, That whilst he lived he could deceive the Devil. Imagine now that whilst he is retired, From Cambridge back unto his native home, Suppose the silent sable visaged night, Casts her black curtain over all the world, And whilst he sleeps within his silent bed, toiled with the studies of the passed day: The very time and hour wherein that spirit That many years attended his command; And often times twixt Cambridge and that town, Had in a minute borne him through the air, By composition twixt the fiend and him, Comes now to claim the Scholar for his due. Behold him here laid on his restless couch, His fatal chime prepared at his head, His chamber guarded with these sable slights, And by him stands that Necromantic chair, In which he makes his direful invocations, And binds the fiends that shall obey his will, Sit with a pleased eye until you know The comic end of our sad Tragic show. What means the tolling of this fatal chime, O what a trembling horror strikes my heart! My stiffened hair stands upright on my head, As do the bristles of a porcupine. Fabell awake, or I will bear thee hence headlong to hell. Ha, ha, why dost thou wake me? Coreb, is it thou? 'tis I. I know thee well, I hear the watchful dogs, With hollow howling tell of thy approach, The lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence: And this distempered and tempestuous night Tells me the air is troubled with some Devil. Come, art thou ready? Whither? or to what? Why Scholar this the hour my date expires, I must depart and come to claim my due. Hah, what is thy due? Fabell, thyself, O let not darkness hear thee speak that word, Lest that with force it hurry hence amain, And leave the world to look upon my woe Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth, And let a little sparrow with her bill, Take but so much as she can bear away, That every day thus losing of my load, I may again in time yet hope to rise. Didst thou not write thy name in thine own blood? And drewest the formal deed twixt thee and me, And is it not recorded now in hell?
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
YOur silence and attention worthy friends, (sense, That your free spirits may with more pleasing Relish the life of this our actiue sceane, To which intent, to calme this murmuring breath, We ring this round with our inuoking spelles, If that your listning eares be yet prepard To entertayne the subiect of our play, Lend vs your patience. Tis Peter Fabell a renowned Scholler, Whose fame hath still beene hitherto forgot By all the writers of this latter age. In Middle-sex his birth and his abode, Not full seauen mile from this great famous Citty That for his fame in sleights and magicke won, Was calde the merry Fiend of Edmonton. If any heere make doubt of such a name, In Edmonton yet fresh vnto this day, Fixt in the wall of that old antient Church His monument remayneth to be seene; His memory yet in the mouths of men, That whilst he liude he could deceiue the Deuill. Imagine now that whilst he is retirde, From Cambridge backe vnto his natiue home, Suppose the silent sable visagde night, Casts her blacke curtaine ouer all the world, And whilst he sleepes within his silent bed, Toylde with the studies of the passed day: The very time and houre wherein that spirite That many yeeres attended his commaund; And often times twixt Cambridge and that towne, Had in a minute borne him through the ayre, By composition twixt the fiend and him, Comes now to claime the Scholler for his due. Behold him heere laide on his restlesse couch, His fatall chime prepared at his head, His chamber guarded with these sable slights, And by him stands that Necromanticke chaire, In which he makes his direfull inuocations, And binds the fiends that shall obey his will, Sit with a pleased eye vntill you know The Commicke end of our sad Tragique show. What meanes the tolling of this fatall chime, O what a trembling horror strikes my hart! My stiffned haire stands vpright on my head, As doe the bristles of a porcupine. Fabell awake, or I will beare thee hence headlong to hell. Ha, ha, why dost thou wake me? Coreb, is it thou? Tis I. I know thee well, I heare the watchfull dogs, With hollow howling tell of thy approch, The lights burne dim, affrighted with thy presence: And this distemperd and tempestuous night Tells me the ayre is troubled with some Deuill. Come, art thou ready? Whither? or to what? Why Scholler this the houre my date expires, I must depart and come to claime my due. Hah, what is thy due? Fabell, thy selfe, O let not darkenes heare thee speake that word, Lest that with force it hurry hence amaine, And leaue the world to looke vpon my woe Yet ouerwhelme me with this globe of earth, And let a little sparrow with her bill, Take but so much as shee can beare away, That euery day thus losing of my load, I may againe in time yet hope to rise. Didst thou not write thy name in thine owne blood? And drewst the formall deed twixt thee and mee, And is it not recorded now in hell?