Away, you villain; what, dost think I am a horse-doctor?
[Exit Horse-Courser.
What art thou, Faustus, but a man condemned to die? Thy fatal time doth
draw to final end; Despair doth drive distrust unto my thoughts:
Confound these passions with a quiet sleep:
Tush, Christ did call the thief upon the cross;
Then rest thee, Faustus, quiet in conceit
[Sleeps in his chair.
Re-enter Horse-Courser, all wet, crying.