Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.

What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone.

Confess and be hanged.

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?

... when all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are not heaven.

He must have a long spoon that eats with the devil.