O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.
Religion! O Diabole! Fie, I am asham'd, however that I seem, To think a word of such simple sound, Of such great matter should be made the ground.
Nothing violent, oft have I heard tell, can be permanent.
Fools that will laugh on earth, most weep in hell.
What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?