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.