The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike
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.
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
Above our life we love a steadfast friend.
It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.
Our swords shall play the orators for us.