SATAN
Nay, my mirth is spent.
My heart is moved even toward an enemy,
When on his head defeat its torrent pours.
I offer you my sympathy.
FAUST
My thanks
Are in appropriate measure tendered you.
SATAN
Distrust me not, for lo, the game is done—
There are no battles more, no testings more
To set between us. From the heart of life
Have forces risen—aye, from the people's breast!—
To seal the measure of defeat; and now
Why shall we quarrel further?
FAUST
Why, indeed?
SATAN
I hear that you are working on a book
Recounting your adventures with the Devil.
I hope 'tis finished: it had better be!
You will not write large libraries, my friend,
In what of life remains to you.