Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander’s love and Oenon’s death?
And hath not he that built the walls of Thebes
With ravishing sound of his melodious harp,
Made music with my Mephistophilis?
Why should I die then, or basely despair?
–Marlowe, Doctor Faustus
Repent, possibly. Despair, never. What’s in that for me? Bring it on, fall.
