Is but a kindly whisper. Use thy sword!
Gott. Then strip thy monkish frock, and take thy guard.
Strip off thy frock, I say—or does it cling
More closely to thy limbs than heretofore?
Time was when thou couldst cast thy slough at will.
Has that time gone? or does thy craven heart
Seek sanctuary in a Churchman’s garb?
[Involuntarily Faustus grasps sword on table.
Despair thy hope—the rag will serve thee not.
Monk or no monk, as Heaven defends the right,