“Bene disserer est finis logices.(The end of logic is to dispute well.)”

“Wagner Doctor Faustus' student and servant: "Alas, poor slave! See how poverty jests in his nakedness. I know the villain's out of service, and so hungry that I know he would give his soul to the devil for a shoulder of mutton, though it were blood raw."Robin a clown: "Not so, neither! I had need to have it well roasted, and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear, I can tell you.”

“In summers heate and mid-time of the dayTo rest my limbes upon a bed I lay,One window shut, the other open stood,Which gave such light as twinkles in a wood,Like twilight glimpse at setting of the Sunne,Or night being past, and yet not day begunne.Such light to shamefast maidens must be showne,Where they may sport, and seeme to be unknowne.Then came Corinna in a long loose gowne,Her white neck hid with tresses hanging downe,Resembling fayre Semiramis going to bed,Or Layis of a thousand lovers sped.I snatcht her gowne: being thin, the harme was small,Yet strived she to be covered therewithall.And striving thus as one that would be cast,Betrayde her selfe, and yeelded at the last.Starke naked as she stood before mine eye,Not one wen in her body could I spie.What armes and shoulders did I touch and see,How apt her breasts were to be prest by me.How smooth a belly under her wast saw I,How large a legge, and what a lustie thigh?To leave the rest, all liked me passing well,I clinged her naked body, downe she fell,Judge you the rest, being tirde she bad me kisse;Jove send me more such after-noones as this.”

“We which were Ovids five books, now are three,For these before the rest preferreth he:If reading five thou plainst of tediousnesse,Two tane away, thy labor will be lesse:With Muse upreard I meant to sing of armes,Choosing a subject fit for feirse alarmes:Both verses were alike till Love (men say)Began to smile and tooke one foote away.Rash boy, who gave thee power to change a line?We are the Muses prophets, none of thine.What if thy Mother take Dianas bowe,Shall Dian fanne when love begins to glowe?In wooddie groves ist meete that Ceres Raigne,And quiver bearing Dian till the plaine:Who'le set the faire treste sunne in battell ray,While Mars doth take the Aonian harpe to play?Great are thy kingdomes, over strong and large,Ambitious Imp, why seekst thou further charge?Are all things thine? the Muses Tempe thine?Then scarse can Phoebus say, this harpe is mine.When in this workes first verse I trod aloft,Love slackt my Muse, and made my numbers soft.I have no mistris, nor no favorit,Being fittest matter for a wanton wit,Thus I complaind, but Love unlockt his quiver,Tooke out the shaft, ordaind my hart to shiver:And bent his sinewy bow upon his knee,Saying, Poet heers a worke beseeming thee.Oh woe is me, he never shootes but hits,I burne, love in my idle bosome sits.Let my first verse be sixe, my last five feete,Fare well sterne warre, for blunter Poets meete.Elegian Muse, that warblest amorous laies,Girt my shine browe with sea banke mirtle praise.-- P. Ovidii Nasonis AmorumLiber PrimusELEGIA 1(Quemadmodum a Cupidine, pro bellis amores scribere coactus sit)”

“What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?”

“Look, look, master, here comes two religious caterpillars.”

“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”