anboco

for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return

we must perform
The form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad:
To patient judgments we appeal our plaud,
And speak for Faustus in his infancy.
Now is he born, his parents base of stock,
In Germany, within a town call'd Rhodes:

o soon he profits in divinity,
The fruitful plot of scholarism grac'd,
That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name,
Excelling all whose sweet delight disputes
In heavenly matters of theology;

Till swoln with cunning,5 of a self-conceit,

heavens conspir'd his overthrow;
For, falling to a devilish exercise

Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold,
And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure:

Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man.
Couldst12 thou make men13 to live eternally,
Or, being dead, raise them to life again,

Jerome's Bible, Faustus; view it well.

The reward of sin is death: that's hard.

Why, then, belike we must sin, and so
consequently die:
Ay, we must die an everlasting death.