Christopher Marlowe (1564 – 1593)
English dramatist, poet and translator of the Elizabethan era.
Accursed Faustus, wretch, what hast thou done?
I do repent, and yet I do despair.
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast.
What shall I do to shun the snares of death?
My heart is harden'd, I cannot repent.
When all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer,
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
The clock strikes twelve.
Oh, it strikes, it strikes! Now body turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.
Oh soul, be changed 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!
Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships,
And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!
Infinite riches in a little room.
Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Or woods or steepy mountain yields.
From jigging veins of rhyming mother wits,
And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay,
We'll lead you to the stately tent of war,
Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine
Threatening the world with high astounding terms,
And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword.
View but his picture in this tragic glass,
And then applaud his fortunes as you please.
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
Her lips suck forth my soul: see where it flies.
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Is it not brave to be a king, Techelles?
Usumcasane and Theridamas,
Is it not passing brave to be a king,
And ride in triumph through Persepolis?
Oh gentle Faustus, leave this damned art,
This magic, that will charm they soul to hell,
And quite bereave thee of salvation.
Though thou hast now offended like a man,
Do not persever in it like a devil.
All they that love not tobacco and boys are fools.
Well, bark, ye dogs; I'll bridle all your tongues.
What doctrine call you this, Che ser?, ser?:
What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu!
I count religion but a childish toy,
And hold there is no sin but ignorance.
Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool.
Love me little, love me long.
Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joy of Heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss?
Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd
In one self place; but where we are is hell,
And where hell is, there must we ever be.
I'm armed with more than complete steel,—
The justice of my quarrel.