The Merry Devil of Edmonton, Shakespeare Apocrypha E-Book

William Shakespeare

• Herausgeber: Seltzer Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 64

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Elizabethan play, sometimes attributed in part to Shakespeare. According to Wikipedia: "William Shakespeare (baptised 26 April 1564 – died 23 April 1616) was an English poet and playwright, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon" (or simply "The Bard"). His surviving works consist of 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems. His plays have been translated into every major living language, and are performed more often than those of any other playwright."

Leseprobe

The Merry Devill Of Edmonton By William Shakespeare (Apocrypha)

published by Samizdat Express, Orange, CT, USA

established in 1974, offering over 14,000 books

Other plays partially attributed to William Shakespeare:

Cromwell

Edward III

Faire Em

Fairy Tale in Two Acts

London Prodigal

Puritaine Widdow

Sir John Oldcastle

Sir Thomas More

Tragedy of Locrine

Two Noble Kinsmen

All's One

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(DRAMATIS PERSONAE.)

Sir Arthur Clare.

Sir Richard Mounchensey.

Sir Ralph Jerningham.

Henry Clare.

Raymond Mounchensey.

Frank Jerningham.

Sir John [a Priest].

Banks [the Miller of Waltham].

Smug [the Smith of Edmonton].

Bilbo.

[Blague the] Host.

Brian.

[Raph, Brian's man.]

[Friar Hildersham.]

[Benedick.]

[Chamberlaine.]

[Coreb, a Spirit.]

Fabel [the Merry Devil].

Lady Clare.

Millisent.

Abbess.

Sexton.

Nuns and Attendants.

The Prologue.

Your silence and attention, worthy friends,

That your free spirits may with more pleasing sense

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 listning ears be yet prepard

To entertain the subject of our play,

Lend us your patience.

Tis Peter Fabell, a renowned Scholler,

Whose fame hath still been hitherto forgot

By all the writers of this latter age.

In Middle-sex his birth and his abode,

Not full seven mile from this great famous City,

That, for his fame in sleights and magicke won,

Was calde the merry Friend of Emonton.

If any here make doubt of such a name,

In Edmonton yet fresh unto this day,

Fixt in the wall of that old antient Church,

His monument remayneth to be seen;

His memory yet in the mouths of men,

That whilst he lived he could deceive the Devill.

Imagine now that whilst he is retirde

From Cambridge back unto his native home,

Suppose the silent, sable visagde 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 Scholler for his due.

[Draw the Curtains.]

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 Necromanticke chair,

In which he makes his direfull invocations,

And binds the fiends that shall obey his will.

Sit with a pleased eye, until you know

The Commicke end of our sad Tragique show.

[Exit.]

INDUCTION.

[The Chime goes, in which time Fabell is oft seen to stare

about him, and hold up his hands.]

FABELL.

What means the tolling of this fatal chime?

O, what a trembling horror strikes my heart!

My stiffned hair stands upright on my head,

As do the bristles of a porcupine.

[Enter Coreb, a Spirit.]

COREB.

Fabell, awake, or I will bear thee hence

Headlong to hell.

FABELL.

Ha, ha,

Why dost thou wake me?  Coreb, is it thou?

COREB.

Tis I.

FABELL.

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 distemperd and tempestuous night

Tells me the air is troubled with some Devill.

COREB.

Come, art thou ready?

FABELL.

Whither? or to what?

COREB.

Why, Scholler, this the hour my date expires;

I must depart, and come to claim my due.

FABELL.

Hah, what is thy due?

COREB.

Fabell, thy self.

FABELL.

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.

COREB.

Didst thou not write thy name in thine own blood,

And drewst the formall deed twixt thee and me,

And is it not recorded now in hell?

FABELL.

Why comst thou in this stern and horrid shape,

Not in familiar sort, as thou wast wont?

COREB.

Because the date of thy command is out,

And I am master of thy skill and thee.

FABELL.

Coreb, thou angry and impatient spirit,

I have earnest business for a private friend;

Reserve me, spirit, until some further time.

COREB.

I will not for the mines of all the earth.

FABELL.

Then let me rise, and ere I leave the world,

Dispatch some business that I have to do;

And in mean time repose thee in that chair.

COREB.

Fabell, I will.

[Sit down.]

FABELL.

O, that this soul, that cost so great a price

As the dear precious blood of her redeemer,

Inspired with knowledge, should by that alone

Which makes a man so mean unto the powers,

Even lead him down into the depth of hell,

When men in their own pride strive to know more

Then man should know!

For this alone God cast the Angels down.

The infinity of Arts is like a sea,

Into which, when man will take in hand to sail

Further then reason, which should be his pilot,

Hath skill to guide him, losing once his compass,

He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirl-pools

As he doth lose the very sight of heaven:

The more he strives to come to quiet harbor,

The further still he finds himself from land.

Man, striving still to find the depth of evil,

Seeking to be a God, becomes a Devil.

COREB.

Come, Fabell, hast thou done?

FABELL.

Yes, yes; come hither.

COREB.

Fabell, I cannot.

FABELL.

Cannot?--What ails your hollownes?

COREB.

Good Fabell, help me.

FABELL.

Alas, where lies your grief? Some Aqua-vitae!

The Devil's very sick, I fear he'll die,

For he looks very ill.

COREB.

Darst thou deride the minister of darkness?

In Lucifer's dread name Coreb conjures thee

To set him free.

FABELL.

I will not for the mines of all the earth,

Unless thou give me liberty to see

Seven years more, before thou seize on me.

COREB.

Fabell, I give it thee.

FABELL.

Swear, damned fiend.

COREB.

Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee,

Till seven years from this hour be full expired.

FABELL.

Enough, come out.

COREB.

A vengeance take thy art!

Live and convert all piety to evil:

Never did man thus over-reach the Devil.

No time on earth like Phaetontique flames

Can have perpetual being.  I'll return

To my infernall mansion; but be sure,

Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry,

But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabell carry.

[Exit.]

FABELL.

Then thus betwixt us two this variance ends,

Thou to thy fellow Fiends, I to my friends.

[Exit.]

ACT I.

SCENE I.  The George Inn, Waltham.

[Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Dorcas, his Lady, Milliscent, his

daughter, young Harry Clare; the men booted, the gentlewomen

in cloaks and safeguards.  Blague, the merry host of the

George, comes in with them.]

HOST.

Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham, my free-hold,

my tenements, goods and chattels.  Madam, here's a room is

the very Homer and Iliad of a lodging, it hath none of the

four elements in it; I built it out of the Center, and I

drink ne'er the less sack.  Welcome, my little waste of

maiden-heads!  What?  I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.