Holla, ye pampered jades of Asia! / What, can ye draw but twenty miles a day?

You stars that reigned at my nativity, / Whose influence hath allotted death and hell, / Now draw up Faustus, like a foggy mist, / Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud.

Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.

Accurst be he that first invented war.

Confess and be hanged.

Our swords shall play the orators for us.