FAB. I know thee well; I hear the watchful dogs With hollow howling tell of thy approach: The lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence; And this distemper'd and tempestuous night Tells me the air is troubled with some devil. COR. Come, art thou ready? FAB. Whither, or to what? COR. Why, scholar, this the hour my date expires:[239] I must depart, and come to claim my due. FAB. Ha! what is thy due? COR. Fabel, thyself. FAB. O, let not darkness hear thee speak that word, Lest that with force it hurry hence amain, And leave the world to look upon my woe: Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth, And let a little sparrow with her bill Take but so much as she can bear away, That, every day thus losing of my load, I may again in time yet hope to rise. COR. Didst thou not write thy name with thine own blood? And drew'st the formal deed 'twixt thee and me? And is it not recorded now in hell? FAB. Why com'st thou in this stern and horrid shape: Not in familiar sort, as thou wast wont? COR. Because the date of thy command is out, And I am master of thy skill and thee. FAB. Coreb, thou angry and impatient spirit, I have earnest business for a private friend: Reserve me, spirit, until some farther time. COR. I will not for the mines of all the earth. FAB. Then let me rise, and ere I leave the world, Despatch[240] some business that I have to do; And in meantime repose thee in that chair. COR. Fabel, I will. [_Sits down in the necromantic chair._ FAB. O, that this soul, that cost so dear a price As the dear precious blood of her Redeemer, Inspir'd with knowledge, should by that alone, Which makes a man so mean unto the powers, Ev'n lead him down into the depth of hell; When men in their own pride strive to know more Than man should know! For this alone God cast the angels down. The infinity of arts is like a sea, Into which when man will take in hand to sail Farther than reason (which should be his pilot) Hath skill to guide him--losing once his compass, He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirlpools, As he doth lose the very sight of heaven: The more he strives to come to quiet harbour, The farther still he finds himself from land. Man, striving still to find the depth of evil-- Seeking to be a god, becomes a devil. COR. Come, Fabel, hast thou done? FAB. Yes, yes, come hither. COR. Fabel, I cannot. FAB. Cannot! what ails your hollowness? COR. Good Fabel, help me. FAB. Alas! where lies your grief?--Some _aqua vitæ_! The devil's very sick, I fear he'll die; For he looks very ill. COR. Dar'st thou deride the minister of darkness? In Lucifer's great name, Coreb conjures thee To set him free.