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Yet level at the end of every art, Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, In th' heavenly matters of theology; FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin And this the man that in his study sits. So much he profits in divinity, Having commenc'd, be a divine in show, And glutted now with learning's golden gifts, Bid Economy farewell, and Galen come: Affords this art no greater miracle? Till swoln with cunning, of [3] a self-conceit, Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me! And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end? And live and die in Aristotle's works. Bene disserere est finis logices. A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit: [Exit.] That shortly he was grac'd with doctor's name, Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: He surfeits upon [4] cursed necromancy; For, falling to a devilish exercise, His waxen wings did mount above his reach, To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess: Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that end: FAUSTUS discovered in his study.