FAUST
I thank you; but I think
That there is nothing in your special line
That I have need of.
SATAN
Are you really, then,
A man contented?
FAUST
I would hardly go
As far as that!... I only meant to say
My needs, my troubles, are not of such kind
As you could remedy.
SATAN
Now, there again
You take the poets' word for me—those low
And scurvy fellows who lump all their spleen
And call the mess my portrait! But in fact,
I am more versatile, more broad, more kind
Than they conceive. I venture to believe
That I could aid you.
FAUST
All the fiends in Hell
Lack devilry enough.