MEPHISTOPHELES
I'll furnish more, ay, more than all you ask.
Though light it seems, not easy is the task.
There lies the gold, but to procure it thence,
That is the art: who knoweth to commence?
Only consider, in those days of terror,
When human floods swamped land and folk together,
How every one, how great soe'er his fear,
All that he treasured most, hid there or here;
So was it 'neath the mighty Roman's sway,
So on till yesterday, ay, till today:
That all beneath the soil still buried lies—
The soil is Cæsar's, his shall be the prize.
TREASURER
Now for a fool he speaketh not amiss;
Our Cæsar's ancient right, in sooth, was this.
CHANCELLOR
Satan for you spreads golden snares; 'tis clear,
Something not right or pious worketh here.
STEWARD
To us at court if welcome gifts he bring,
A little wrong is no such serious thing.
FIELD MARSHAL
Shrewd is the fool, he bids what all desire;
The soldier, whence it comes, will not inquire.