The Lord. Hast nothing for our edification? Still thy old work of accusation? Will things on earth be never right for thee?
Mephistopheles. No, Lord! I find them still as bad as bad can be. Poor souls! their miseries seem so much to please 'em, I scarce can find it in my heart to tease 'em.
The Lord. Knowest thou Faust?
Mephistopheles. The Doctor?
The Lord. Ay, my servant!
Mephistopheles. He!
Forsooth! he serves you in a famous fashion;
No earthly meat or drink can feed his passion;
Its grasping greed no space can measure;
Half-conscious and half-crazed, he finds no rest;
The fairest stars of heaven must swell his treasure.
Each highest joy of earth must yield its zest,
Not all the world—the boundless azure—
Can fill the void within his craving breast.
The Lord. He serves me somewhat darkly, now, I grant,
Yet will he soon attain the light of reason.
Sees not the gardener, in the green young plant,
That bloom and fruit shall deck its coming season?
Mephistopheles. What will you bet? You'll surely lose your wager! If you will give me leave henceforth, To lead him softly on, like an old stager.
The Lord. So long as he shall live on earth, Do with him all that you desire. Man errs and staggers from his birth.
Mephistopheles. Thank you; I never did aspire
To have with dead folk much transaction.
In full fresh cheeks I take the greatest satisfaction.
A corpse will never find me in the house;
I love to play as puss does with the mouse.