Have you read it ?' 'Faith, Puddock, I forgot it! Let's see what 'tis like,' said Devereux.
'Hey day!' And he read-- 'Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare Into that vast perpetual torture-house; There are the furies tossing damned souls On burning forks; their bodies boil in lead; There are live quarters broiling on the coals That ne'er can die; this ever-burning chair Is for o'er-tortured souls to rest them in; These that are fed with sops of flaming fire Were gluttons, and loved only delicates, And laughed to see the poor starve at their gates.
'Tailors! by Jupiter! Serve'em right, the rogues.

Tailors lining upon ragou royal, Spanish olea, Puddock--fat livers, and green morels in the Phoenix, the scoundrels, and laughing to see poor gentlemen of the Royal Irish Artillery starving at their gates--hang 'em.' 'Well! well! Listen to the _Good Angel_,' said Puddock, taking up the book and declaiming his best-- 'O thou hast lost celestial happiness, Pleasures unspeakable, bliss without end.
Hadst thou affected sweet divinity, Hell or the devil had no power on thee-- Hadst thou kept on that way.

Faustus, behold In what resplendent glory thou hadst sat, On yonder throne, like those bright shining spirits, And triumphed over hell! That hast thou lost; And now, poor soul, must thy good angel leave thee; The jaws of hell are open to receive thee.' 'Stop that; 'tis all cursed rant,' said Devereux.

'That is, the thing itself; you make the most it.' 'Why, truly,' said Puddock, 'there are better speeches in it.

But 'tis very late; and parade, you know--I shall go to bed.