Part 47

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 too late.

He had a friend, once gay and greene. Who died not long before, The wofull'st wretch was ever seen, The worst ere woman bore,

Unlesse this Wormall 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 played 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.

FOOTNOTES:

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

We are to suppose an allusion to Robert Greene.

The anagram of Marlowe.