“Let me no more from this obedience rise,
Which my most inward true and duteous spirit
Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending.”
“Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.”
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit* against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath.
* Possibly taking liberties with the depiction of spirits
What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemn’d to die?
Thy fatal time doth draw to final end;
Despair doth drive distrust into my thoughts:
Confound these passions with a quiet sleep:
Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the Cross;
Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit.
Environing their standard round, that stood
As bristle-pointed as a thorny wood;
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests;
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield,
To one of woman born.
Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back–
Which was when I perceived thee–that thou camest
From good descending?
Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
“Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want?”
Cast photos are always a challenge.
He doth nothing but frown, as who should say ‘If you
will not have me, choose:’ he hears merry tales and
Is whispering nothing?
Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?
Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career
Of laughing with a sigh?–a note infallible
Of breaking honesty–horsing foot on foot?
I will discharge it in either your straw-colour
beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain
beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your
I do digest the poison of thy flesh,
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
Keep then far league and truce with thy true bed;
I live unstain’d, thou undishonoured.
“Thou wilt be throng’d to shortly.”
And then he got him to a rock aloft,
Where having spied her tower, long stared he on’t,
And prayed the narrow toiling Hellespont
To part in twain, that he might come and go;
But still the rising billows answered, “No.”
“Between whose hills her head entombed is:
Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies,
To be admired of lewd unhallow’d eyes.”
Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
Fair ladies mask’d are roses in their bud;
Dismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown,
Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.