In his colloquy with the fallen angel, he shews the fixedness of his determination:— ‘What is great Mephostophilis so passionate For being deprived of the joys of heaven? Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.’ Yet we afterwards find him faltering in his resolution, and struggling with the extremity of his fate. ‘My heart is harden’d, I cannot repent: Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven: Swords, poisons, halters, and envenom’d steel Are laid before me to dispatch myself; And long ere this I should have done the deed, Had not sweet pleasure conquer’d deep despair. Have I not made blind Homer sing to me Of Alexander’s love and Œnon’s death? And hath not he that built the walls of Thebes With ravishing sounds of his melodious harp, Made music with my Mephostophilis? Why should I die then or basely despair? I am resolv’d, Faustus shall not repent. Come, Mephostophilis, let us dispute again, And reason of divine astrology.’ There is one passage more of this kind, which is so striking and beautiful, so like a rapturous and deeply passionate dream, that I cannot help quoting it here: it is the Address to the Apparition of Helen. ‘_Enter_ Helen _again, passing over between two Cupids_. _Faustus._ Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships, And burned the topless tow’rs of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Her lips suck forth my soul! See where it flies. Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for Heav’n is in these lips, And all is dross that is not Helena. I will be Paris, and for love of thee, Instead of Troy shall Wittenberg be sack’d; And I will combat with weak Menelaus, And wear thy colours on my plumed crest; Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel, And then return to Helen for a kiss. —Oh! thou art fairer than the evening air, Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars: Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter, When he appear’d to hapless Semele; More lovely than the monarch of the sky In wanton Arethusa’s azure arms; And none but thou shalt be my paramour.’ The ending of the play is terrible, and his last exclamations betray an anguish of mind and vehemence of passion, not to be contemplated without shuddering.