FABELL.
O, that this soul, that cost so great a price
As the dear precious blood of her redeemer,
Inspired with knowledge, should by that alone
Which makes a man so mean unto the powers,
Even lead him down into the depth of hell,
When men in their own pride strive to know more
Then 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
Further then reason, which should be his pilot,
Hath skill to guide him, losing once his compass,
He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirl-pools
As he doth lose the very sight of heaven:
The more he strives to come to quiet harbor,
The further still he finds himself from land.
Man, striving still to find the depth of evil,
Seeking to be a God, becomes a Devil.
COREB.
Come, Fabell, hast thou done?
FABELL.
Yes, yes; come hither.
COREB.
Fabell, I cannot.
FABELL.
Cannot?—What ails your hollownes?
COREB.
Good Fabell, help me.
FABELL.
Alas, where lies your grief? Some Aqua-vitae!
The Devil’s very sick, I fear he’ll die,
For he looks very ill.
COREB.
Darst thou deride the minister of darkness?
In Lucifer’s dread name Coreb conjures thee
To set him free.
FABELL.
I will not for the mines of all the earth,
Unless thou give me liberty to see
Seven years more, before thou seize on me.
COREB.
Fabell, I give it thee.