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And this the man that in his study sits. Then read no more; thou hast attain'd that[9] end: Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss: A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit: Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold, FAUSTUS. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin Seeing, Ubi desinit philosophus, ibi incipit medicus: Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou[8] hast ravish'd me! To sound the depth of that thou wilt profess: And glutted now[6] with learning's golden gifts, Is, to dispute well, logic's chiefest end? Having commenc'd, be a divine in shew, Bid Economy[10] farewell, and[11] Galen come, And be eterniz'd for some wondrous cure: Yet level at the end of every art, [Exit.] He surfeits upon cursed necromancy; For, falling to a devilish exercise, In heavenly matters of theology; Bene disserere est finis logices. His waxen wings did mount above his reach, Till swoln with cunning,[5] of a self-conceit, And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow; FAUSTUS discovered in his study.[7] And live and die in Aristotle's works. Affords this art no greater miracle?