Christopher Marlowe

No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer

That hath deprived thee of the joys of Heaven.

Oh, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air,

Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!

O soul, be chang'd into little water-drops

And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found.

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

Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile.

Ugly hell, gape not, come not, Lucifer!

I'll burn my books!—ah, Mephistopheles!"

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,

And burnèd is Apollo's laurel bough,

That sometime grew within this learnèd 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.

And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee,

The jaws of hell are open to receive thee.

Have I not made blind Homer sing to me?

Live and die in Aristotle's works.

All: God forbid!

Faustus: God forbade it indeed, but Faustus hath done it.

My heart's so harden'd, I cannot repent.

What doctrine call you this, Che serà, serà:

What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu!

O, thou art fairer than the evening air

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

He that loves pleasure, must for pleasure fall.

Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,

Conspir'd against our God with Lucifer,

And are for ever damn'd with Lucifer.

Che serà, serà:

What will be, shall be.