How am I glutted with conceit of this! Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please, Resolve me of all… — 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.