Faustus. Provoke but my wrath, and I will bruise thee to tears with my magic rod. I will chain thee to the rim of my circle, and then stamp on thy neck.
Devil. Do it, and hell will laugh at thy anger. For every tear thou makest me shed, Despair shall one day wring a drop of blood from thy
brow, and Revenge shall hold the scales to catch and weigh it.
Faustus. How revolting to a noble creature like myself to hold converse with an outcast, who has only sense for wickedness, and will only assist in wickedness!
Devil. How disgusting to be forced to listen to a man who reproaches the Devil because he is a devil, and does not boast of that shadow, Virtue, like one of you!
Faustus. Vain boast. If thou couldst but taste the moral value of man, by which he approaches the immortal, and which makes him worthy of immortality!
Devil. I can prove that it does not exist.
Faustus. Yes; I believe thou canst. And so can any one of us who makes the measure of his own wickedness that of all mankind, and who makes that virtue contemptible which he has never felt in his breast. We have had philosophers who in this matter have long had the start of the Devil.
Devil. Better if thou hadst never read them;
thy head would then have been more clear, and thy heart more sound.