When our poem comes out!
Faust. [gazing on the mirror]
Woe’s me! her beauty doth my wits confound.
Mephistopheles. [pointing to the Brutes]
And even my good brain is whirling round and round.
The Brutes.
And if we well speed,
As speed well we ought,
We are makers indeed,
We are moulders of thought.