What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?
The griefs of private men are soon allayed, But not of kings.
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.
Love is not ful of pittie (as men say) But deaffe and cruell, where he meanes to pray.
All women are ambitious naturallie
My men like satyrs grazing on the lawns, / Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic hay.
Lone women, like to empty houses, perish.