All live to die, and rise to fall.
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.
Ah fair Zenocrate, divine Zenocrate, Fair is too foul an epithet for thee.
All places shall be hell that are not heaven.
Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead.
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.