Faust. And heartily!
Whenever to the passing hour
I cry: O stay! thou art so fair!
To chain me down I give thee power
To the black bottom of despair!
Then let my knell no longer linger,
Then from my service thou art free,
Fall from the clock the index-finger,
Be time all over, then, for me!
Mephistopheles. Think well, for we shall hold you to the letter.
Faust. Full right to that just now I gave;
I spoke not as an idle braggart better.
Henceforward I remain a slave,
What care I who puts on the setter?
Mephistopheles. I shall this very day, at Doctor's-feast,[16]
My bounden service duly pay thee.
But one thing!—For insurance' sake, I pray thee,
Grant me a line or two, at least.
Faust. Pedant! will writing gain thy faith, alone?
In all thy life, no man, nor man's word hast thou known?
Is't not enough that I the fatal word
That passes on my future days have spoken?
The world-stream raves and rushes (hast not heard?)
And shall a promise hold, unbroken?
Yet this delusion haunts the human breast,
Who from his soul its roots would sever?
Thrice happy in whose heart pure truth finds rest.
No sacrifice shall he repent of ever!
But from a formal, written, sealed attest,
As from a spectre, all men shrink forever.
The word and spirit die together,
Killed by the sight of wax and leather.
What wilt thou, evil sprite, from me?
Brass, marble, parchment, paper, shall it be?
Shall I subscribe with pencil, pen or graver?
Among them all thy choice is free.
Mephistopheles. This rhetoric of thine to me
Hath a somewhat bombastic savor.
Any small scrap of paper's good.
Thy signature will need a single drop of blood.[17]
Faust. If this will satisfy thy mood, I will consent thy whim to favor.
Mephistopheles. Quite a peculiar juice is blood.
Faust. Fear not that I shall break this bond; O, never!
My promise, rightly understood,
Fulfils my nature's whole endeavor.
I've puffed myself too high, I see;
To thy rank only I belong.
The Lord of Spirits scorneth me,
Nature, shut up, resents the wrong.
The thread of thought is snapt asunder,
All science to me is a stupid blunder.
Let us in sensuality's deep
Quench the passions within us blazing!
And, the veil of sorcery raising,
Wake each miracle from its long sleep!
Plunge we into the billowy dance,
The rush and roll of time and chance!
Then may pleasure and distress,
Disappointment and success,
Follow each other as fast as they will;
Man's restless activity flourishes still.
Mephistopheles. No bound or goal is set to you;
Where'er you like to wander sipping,
And catch a tit-bit in your skipping,
Eschew all coyness, just fall to,
And may you find a good digestion!