The Tragicall History
Nothing so sweet, as Magicke is to him,
Which he prefers before his chiefest blisse,
And this the man that in his study sits.
Faust.
Settle thy studies Faustus, and begin
To sound the depth of that thou wilt professe.
Having commenc'd be a divine in shew,
Yet levell at the end of every Art,
And live and dye in Aristotles workes.
Sweet Analitickes, 'tis thou hast ravisht me,
Bene disserere est finis Logices.
Is to dispute well Logickes chiefest end?
Affords this Art no greater miracle?
Then read no more, thou hast attain'd that end:
A greater subject fitteth Faustus wit:
Bid Oeconomy farewell, and Galen come,
Be a physician Faustus, heape up gold,
And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure:
Summum bonum medicinæ sanitas.
The end of Physicke is our bodies health:
Why Faustus hast thou not attain'd that end?
Are not thy Bills hung up as monuments,
Whereby whole Cities have escaped the plague,
And divers desperate maladies beene cur'd?
Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man.
Couldst thou make men to live eternally,
Or being dead raise men to life againe,
Then this profession were to be esteem'd.
Physicke farewell: where is Justinian?
Si una eademque res legatus duobus,
Alter rem, alter valorem rei, &c.
A petty case of paltry Legacies,
Exhereditari filium non potest Pater, nisi, &c.
Such is the subject of the institute,
And universall body of the Law.
This study fits a mercenary drudge,
Who aymes at nothing but externall trash,
Too servile and illiberall for me.
