What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?
O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?
That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resolute, And now and then stab, as occasion serves.
Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead.