Class Texts

The Atheist’s Tragedy, III.i. 1-48

Set down the body. Pay earth what she lent,

But she shall bear a living monument

To let succeeding ages truly know

That she is satisfied what he did owe,

Both principal and use, because his worth

Was better at his death than at his birth

A dead march. Enter the funeral of

Charlemont as soldier.

And with his body place that memory

Of noble Charlemont, his worthy son,

And give their graves the rites that do belong

To soldiers. They were soldiers both. The father

Held open war with sin, the sons with blood;

This in a war more gallant, that more good.

The first volley

There place their arms, and here their epitaphs,

And may these lines survive the last of graves:

The Epitaph of Montferrers

Here lie the ashes of that earth and fire

Whose heat and fruit did feed and warm the poor.

And they, as if they would in sighs expire

And into tears dissolve, his death deplore.

He did that good freely for goodness sake,

Unforced, for generousness he held so dear

That he feared none but Him that did him make

And yet he served Him more for love than fear.

So’s life provided that though he did die

A sudden death, yet died not suddenly.

The Epitaph of Charlemont

His body lies interred within this mould,

Who died a young man, yet departed old,

And in all strength of youth that man can have

Was ready still to drop into his grave.

For aged in virtue, with a youthful eye

He welcomed it, being still prepared to die;

And living so, though young deprived of breath,

He did not suffer an untimely death,

But we may say of his blest decease:

He died in war, and yet he died in peace.

The second volley

Might that fire revive the ashes of

This phoenix! Yet the wonder would not be

So great as he was good and wondered at

For that. His life’s example so true

A practique of religion’s theory

That her divinity seemed rather the

Description than th’instruction of his life.

And of his worthy goodness was his virtuous son

A worthy imitator. So that on

These two Herculean pillars where their arms

Are placed they may be writ Non ultra. For

Beyond their lives, as well for youth as age,

Nor young not old, in merit or in name,

Shall e’er exceed their virtues or their fame.

¡Why dost thou stare upon me? Thou art not

¡The skull of him I murdered. What hast thou

¡To do to vex my conscience? Sure thou wert

¡The head of a most dogged usurer,

¡Th’art so uncharitable. And that bawd,

¡The sky there, she could shut out the windows and

¡The doors of this great chamber of the world,

¡And draw the curtains of the clouds between

¡Those lights and me about this bed of earth,

¡When that same strumpet, Murder, and myself

¡Committed sin together.

¡

Cyril Tourneur, The Atheist’s Tragedy, IV.iii.212-222

¡Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is. My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your jibes now – your gambols, your song, your flashes of merriment, they were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now to mock your own grinning, quite chapfallen. Now get you to my lady’s table and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that.

¡

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Q1 1603,

V.i.174-184

¡Thou sallow picture of my poisoned love,

¡My study’s ornament, thou shell of death,

¡Once the bright face of my betrothèd lady,

¡When life and beauty naturally filled out

¡These ragged imperfections,

¡When two heaven-pointed diamonds were set

¡In those unsightly rings – then ’twas a face

¡So far beyond the artificial shine

¡Of any woman’s bought complexion

¡That the uprightest man (if such there be,

¡That sin but seven times a day) broke custom

¡And made up eight with looking after her.

Thomas Middleton, The Revenger’s Tragedy, I.i.14-25