What art thou Faustus but a man condemn'd to die?
Thy fatall time drawes to a finall end;
Accursed Faustus, where is mercy now?
I do repent, and yet I doe despaire,
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast:
What shall I doe to shun the snares of death?
Ah, gentlemen, I gave them my soule for my cunning.
Cut is the branch that might have growne full straight,
And burned Apollo's Lawrell bough,
That sometime grew within this learned man:
Faustus is gone, regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendfull fortune may exhort the wise
Onely to wonder at unlawfull things,
Whose deepnesse doth intice such forward wits,
To practice more then heavenly power permits.
Recensione trasferita su Goodreads:
"why, this is hell: nor am I out of it.
thinkst thou that I who saw the face of God,
and tasted the eternall Joyes of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hels,
in being depriv'd of everlasting blisse?"