MEPHISTOPHELES
Where then bestowed himself hath he?
Lead me to him! bring him to me!
FAMULUS
Alas! Too strict his prohibition,
Scarce dare I, without his permission.
Months, on his mighty work intent,
Hath he, in strict seclusion spent.
Most dainty 'mong your men of books,
Like charcoal-burner now he looks,
With face begrimed from ear to nose;
His eyes are blear'd while fire he blows;
Thus for the crisis still he longs;
His music is the clang of tongs.