entrails of yon 260 labouring cloud[s], That, when you 261 vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths; But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven!           [The clock strikes the half-hour.]      O, half the hour is past! 'twill all be past anon. O, if 262 my soul must suffer for my sin, Impose some end to my incessant pain; Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at last 263 be sav'd! No end is limited to damned souls. Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast? O, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true, This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd Into some brutish beast! all beasts are happy, For, when they die, Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements; But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell. Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me! No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.           [The clock strikes twelve.]      It strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! O soul, be chang'd into small water-drops, And fall into the ocean, ne'er be found! Thunder. Enter DEVILS. O, mercy, heaven! look not so fierce on me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! Ugly hell, gape not! come not, Lucifer! I'll burn my books!—O Mephistophilis!           [Exeunt DEVILS with FAUSTUS.]            Enter SCHOLARS. 264 FIRST SCHOLAR. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, For such a dreadful night was never seen; Since first the world's creation did begin, Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard:      Pray heaven the doctor have escap'd the danger. SECOND SCHOLAR. O, help us, heaven! 265 see, here are Faustus' limbs, All torn asunder by the hand of death! THIRD SCHOLAR. The devils whom Faustus serv'd have 266 torn him thus; For, twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought, I heard him shriek and call aloud for help; At which self 267 time the house seem'd all on fire With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. SECOND SCHOLAR. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such As every Christian heart laments to think on, Yet, for he was a scholar once admir'd For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, We'll give his mangled limbs due burial; And all the students, cloth'd in mourning black, Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.           [Exeunt.]            Enter CHORUS. CHORUS. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough, That sometime grew within this learned 

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