The Griefs Of Private Men Are Soon

My Men Like Satyrs Grazing On The Lawns, / Shall With Their Goat-feet Dance An Antic Hay.

What Art Thou Faustus, But A Man Condemned To Die?

Love Is Not Ful Of Pittie (as Men Say) But Deaffe And Cruell, Where He Meanes To Pray.

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.

More Childish Valorous Than Manly Wise.