The six days' labor of a god, my friend,
Who doth himself cry bravo, at the end,
By something clever doubtless should be crown'd.
For this time gaze your fill, and when you please
just such a prize for you I can provide;
How blest is he to whom kind fate decrees,
To take her to his home, a lovely bride!
[FAUST continues to gaze into the mirror.]
MEPHISTOPHELES [stretching himself on the settle and playing with the whisk, continues to speak.]
Here sit I, like a king upon his throne;
My sceptre this;—the crown I want alone.
THE MONKEYS (who have hitherto been making all sorts of strange gestures, bring MEPHISTOPHELES _a crown, with loud cries)
Oh, be so good,
With sweat and with blood
The crown to lime!
[They handle the crown awkwardly and break it in two pieces, with which they skip about.]
'Twas fate's decree!
We speak and see!
We hear and rhyme.
FAUST (before the mirror)
Woe's me! well-nigh distraught I feel!