Faustus came back with his fiendish attendants.
Satan. Well, Faustus, how do you like your bath, and those that rubbed you dry?
Faustus. Maddening and intolerable thought, that the noble and ethereal part of man must expiate the sins of a body formed of clay!
The devils laughed till the vaults reëchoed.
Satan. Bravo, Faustus! I am convinced, from thy words and behaviour, that thou art too good for a man. I am, besides, much indebted to thee for having invented Printing, that art which is so singularly useful to us.
Pope. What, a printer! He gave himself out at my court for a gentleman, and won my daughter Lucretia!
Faustus. Silence, proud Spaniard. I paid her richly; and thou wouldst have prostituted thyself to me for a like sum, if I had been one of thine own stamp. My noble invention will sow more good, and will be more profitable to the human race, than all the popes from St. Peter down to thyself.
Satan. Thou art mistaken, Faustus. In the first place, men will rob thee of the honour of having invented this art.
Faustus. That is worse than damnation.
Satan. Observe now this man: he stands before me, the ruler here, and holds everlasting torments as nothing when compared with the loss of his fame and glory, those chimeras of his overheated brain. In the second place, Faustus, the shades will descend by hundreds of thousands, will fall upon thee, and overwhelm thee with curses, for having converted the little stream which poisoned the human mind into a monstrous flood. I, who am the ruler here, and shall gain by it, am therefore thy debtor; and if thou wilt curse the Eternal, who either could not or would not make thee better, thou shalt escape the torments of this place, and I will make thee a prince of my dark kingdom.