Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place, for where we are is hell, And where hell is there must we ever be.
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike
What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?
You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute, And now and then stab, as occasion serves.
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
Confess and be hanged.