Christopher Marlowe (1564 – 1593)
English dramatist, poet and translator of the Elizabethan era.
My swelling heart for very anger breaks.
Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness.
That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead.
FRIAR BARNARDINE. Thou hast committed--
BARABAS. Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead.
So march away, and let due praise be given
Neither to fate nor fortune, but to Heaven.
Now, Faustus, must thou needs be damned?
And canst thou not be saved?
What boots it then to think on God or heaven?
Away with such vain fancies and despair,
Despair in God and trust in Beelzebub.
Now go not backward. No, Faustus, be resolute.
Why waverest thou? Oh, something soundeth in mine ears
Abjure this magic, turn to God again.
Where death cuts off the progress of his pomp
And murderous fates throw all his triumphs down.
If we say that we have no sin
We deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us.
Why then, belike, we must sin,
And consequently die.
Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
Oh Faustus, lay that damned book aside,
And gaze not on it lest it tempt thy soul
And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head.
Let Earth and Heaven his timeless death deplore,
For both their worths shall equal him no more.
What should a priest do with so fair a house?
A prison may best beseem his holiness.
Come, let us march against the powers of heaven,
And set black streamers in the firmament,
To signify the slaughter of the gods.
And sooner shall the sun fall from his sphere
Than Tamburlaine be slain or overcome.
How am I glutted with conceit of this!
Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please,
Resolve me of all ambiguities,
Perform what desperate enterprise I will?