Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd

In one self place; but where we are is hell,

And where hell is, there must we ever be.

If we say that we have no sin

We deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us.

Why then, belike, we must sin,

And consequently die.

Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.

Think'st thou that I saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?

What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera,

What will be, shall be? Divinity, adeau!

He that is grounded in astrology,

Enrich'd with tongues, well seen in minerals,

Hath all the principles magic doth require.

How! My soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though 'twere blood-raw! Not so, good friend: by'r lady, I had need have it well roasted, and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear.

Marriage is but a ceremonial toy.

Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast.

What shall I do to shun the snares of death?

Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing?

I tell thee, 'tis not half so fair as thou,

Or any man that breathes on earth.

I am Pride. I disdain to have any parents. I am like to Ovid's flea; I can creep into every corner of a wench; sometimes, like a perriwig, I sit upon her brow; or, like a fan of feathers, I kiss her lips; indeed, I do--what do I not? But, fie, what a scent is here! I'll not speak another word, except the ground were perfumed, and covered with cloth of arras.

I am Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife. I cannot read, and therefore wish all books were burnt. I am lean with seeing others eat. O, that there would come a famine through all the world, that all might die, and I live alone! Then thou shouldst see how fat I would be.

Time doth run with calm and silent foot,

Shortening my days and thread of vital life.

Ah, stay, good Faustus, stay thy desperate steps!

I see an angel hovers o'er thy head,

And, with a vial full of precious grace,

Offers to pour the same into thy soul:

Then call for mercy, and avoid despair.

My God, my God, look not so fierce on me!

Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!

Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer!

I'll burn my books!--Ah, Mephistophilis!

When all is done, divinity is best.

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. Regard his hellish fall,

Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise

Only to wonder at unlawful things,

Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits,

To practise more than heavenly power permits.

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