ragged to play a common conjuror's part and which almost succeed in
shattering the impression of tragic intensity left by the few scenes
where poetry triumphs over facts. Here again, however, our criticism of
the author is softened by the knowledge that Dekker and Rowley made
undefined additions to the play, and may therefore be responsible for
the crudities of its humour. Nevertheless, even with this allowance,
Marlowe must be blamed for the utter incongruity of so many scenes with
high tragedy. The harmony which rules the construction of _Tamburlaine_,
giving it a lofty coherence and consistency, is lamentably absent from
_Doctor Faustus_.

_Doctor Faustus_ is not a great play. Yet it will never be forgotten.
Though mismanaged, it has the elements of a tremendous tragedy. In
discerning the suitability of the Teutonic legend for this purpose
Marlowe showed a far truer understanding of what tragedy should be, of
the superior terrors of moral over material downfall, than he displayed
in his more successful later tragedy.

Most of the poetry is of a less fiery kind, it flares less, than the
poetry of _Tamburlaine_. There is also more use of prose. But at least
two purple passages exist to give immortality to Faustus's passion and
despair. The first has already been quoted at length. The second is the
even more famous soliloquy, the terror-stricken outcry rather, of
Faustus in his last hour of life. With frightful realism it confirms the
fiend's scornful prophecy of a scene of 'desperate lunacy', when his
labouring brain will beget 'a world of idle fantasies to overreach the
devil, but all in vain'.

Marlowe's adaptation of blank verse to natural conversation has been
spoken of as one of his contributions to the art of dramatic poetry.
The following passage illustrates this:

[_The compact has just been signed._]

_Meph._ Speak, Faustus; do you deliver this as your deed?

_Faustus._ Ay, take it, and the devil give thee good of it!

_Meph._ So, now, Faustus, ask me what thou wilt.

_Faustus._ First I will question with thee about hell.
Tell me, where is the place that men call hell?

_Meph._ Under the heavens.

_Faustus._ Ay, so are all things else; but whereabouts?

_Meph._ Within the bowels of these elements,
Where we are tortured and remain for ever.
Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed
In one self-place; but where we are is hell,
And w