<em><u>Answer:</u></em>
<u><em>Prologue:</em></u>
<em>"CHORUS. Not marching in the fields of Thrasymene,
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<em>Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens;<1>
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<em>Nor sporting in the dalliance of love,
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<em>In courts of kings where state is overturn'd;
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<em>Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,
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<em>Intends our Muse to vaunt her<2> heavenly verse:
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<em>Only this, gentles,—we must now perform
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<em>The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad:
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<em>And now to patient judgments we appeal,
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<em>And speak for Faustus in his infancy.
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<em>Now is he born of parents base of stock,
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<em>In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes:
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<em>At riper years, to Wittenberg he went,
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<em>Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.
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<em>So much he profits in divinity,
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<em>That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name,
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<em>Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute
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<em>In th' heavenly matters of theology;
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<em>Till swoln with cunning, of<3> a self-conceit,
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<em>His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
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<em>And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow;
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<em>For, falling to a devilish exercise,
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<em>And glutted now with learning's golden gifts,
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<em>He surfeits upon<4> cursed necromancy;
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<em>Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,
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<em>Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:
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<em>And this the man that in his study sits.
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