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Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.
Christopher Marlowe
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Christopher Marlowe
Age: 29 †
Born: 1564
Born: February 23
Died: 1593
Died: May 30
Author
Dramatist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Canterbury
United Kingdom
Kit Marlowe
Till
Faustus
Wings
Swollen
Reach
Overthrow
Heaven
Mount
Self
Conceit
Melting
Heavens
Cunning
Waxen
More quotes by Christopher Marlowe
While money doesn't buy love, it puts you in a great bargaining position.
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Where both deliberate, the love is slight: Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
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That perfect bliss and sole felicity, the sweet fruition of an earthly crown.
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Honour is purchas'd by the deeds we do.
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Faustus: Stay, Mephistopheles, and tell me, what good will my soul do thy lord? Mephistopheles: Enlarge his kingdom. Faustus: Is that the reason he tempts us thus? Mephistopheles: Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. (It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery)
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Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place, for where we are is hell, And where hell is there must we ever be.
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Who hateth me but for my happiness? Or who is honored now but for his wealth? Rather had I, a Jew, be hated thus, Than pitied in a Christian poverty.
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Love me little, love me long.
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FAUSTUS. [Stabbing his arm.] Lo, Mephistophilis, for love of thee, I cut mine arm, and with my proper blood Assure my soul to be great Lucifer's, Chief lord and regent of perpetual night!
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We control fifty percent of a relationship. We influence one hundred percent of it.
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Make me immortal with a kiss.
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What feeds me destroys me.
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Now I will show myselfTo have more of the serpent than the doveThat is--more knave than fool.
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All live to die, and rise to fall.
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There is no sin but ignorance.
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Live and die in Aristotle's works.
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Infinite riches in a little room.
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Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, / Conspired against our God with Lucifer, / And are for ever damned with Lucifer.
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You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.
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The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike
Christopher Marlowe
