Herein your learned men I recognize!
What you touch not, miles distant from you lies;
What you grasp not, is naught in sooth to you;
What you count not, cannot, you deem, be true;
What you weigh not, that hath for you no weight;
What you coin not, you're sure is counterfeit.
EMPEROR
Therewith our needs are not one whit the less.
What meanest thou with this thy Lent-address?
I'm tired of this eternal If and How.
'Tis gold we lack; so good, procure it thou!
MEPHISTOPHELES
I'll furnish more, ay, more than all you ask.
Though light it seems, not easy is the task.
There lies the gold, but to procure it thence,
That is the art: who knoweth to commence?
Only consider, in those days of terror,
When human floods swamped land and folk together,
How every one, how great soe'er his fear,
All that he treasured most, hid there or here;
So was it 'neath the mighty Roman's sway,
So on till yesterday, ay, till today:
That all beneath the soil still buried lies—
The soil is Cæsar's, his shall be the prize.
TREASURER
Now for a fool he speaketh not amiss;
Our Cæsar's ancient right, in sooth, was this.
CHANCELLOR
Satan for you spreads golden snares; 'tis clear,
Something not right or pious worketh here.