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And all the students, cloth'd in mourning black, Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.

[Exeunt.

Enter Chorus.

Chor. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,

And burned is Apollo's laurel-bough,

That sometime grew within this learned man.
Faustus is gone: regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise,
Only to wonder at unlawful things,

Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practise more than heavenly power permits.
[Exit.
Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.

BALLAD OF FAUSTUS.

[In the course of the notes on the earlier Faustus several extracts have been given from the prose History of Doctor Faustus; and the following ballad on the same subject may properly find a place here. It is now re-printed from a copy in The Roxburghe Collection, vol. ii. 235, Brit. Museum.]

The Judgment of God shewed upon one John Faustus, Doctor in Divinity.

Tune of Fortune, my Foe.

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