Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone.
I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.
More childish valorous than manly wise.
What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?
Live and die in Aristotle's works.
... when all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast. What shall I do to shun the snares of death?
O soul, be changed into little waterdrops, / And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found!
Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.
Accurst be he that first invented war.
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
Faustus: Stay, Mephistopheles, and tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord? Mephistopheles: Enlarge his kingdom. Faustus: Is that the reason he tempts us thus? Mephistopheles: Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. (It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery)
Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, / Conspired against our God with Lucifer, / And are for ever damned with Lucifer.
You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
Now I will show myselfTo have more of the serpent than the dove;That is--more knave than fool.
The griefs of private men are soon allayed, But not of kings.
Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I am asham'd, however that I seem, To think a word of such simple sound, Of such great matter should be made the ground.
Love is not ful of pittie (as men say) But deaffe and cruell, where he meanes to pray.
If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there's no truth in us. Why then belike we must sin, And so consequently die. Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm.] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee, I cut mine arm, and with my proper blood Assure my soul to be great Lucifer's, Chief lord and regent of perpetual night!
Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
Who hateth me but for my happiness? Or who is honored now but for his wealth? Rather had I, a Jew, be hated thus, Than pitied in a Christian poverty.
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