The Lord.
Ay: my servant.
Mephistopheles.
Indeed! and of his master’s will observant,
In fashion quite peculiar to himself;
His food and drink are of no earthly taste,
A restless fever drives him to the waste.
Himself half seems to understand
How his poor wits have run astrand;
From heaven he asks each loveliest star,
Earth’s chiefest joy must jump to his demand,
And all that’s near, and all that’s far,
Soothes not his deep-moved spirit’s war.
The Lord.
Though for a time he blindly grope his way,
Soon will I lead him into open day;
Well knows the gardener, when green shoots appear,
That bloom and fruit await the ripening year.
Mephistopheles.
What wager you? you yet shall lose that soul!
Only give me full license, and you’ll see
How I shall lead him softly to my goal.
The Lord.
As long as on the earth he lives
Thou hast my license full and free;
Man still must stumble while he strives.
Mephistopheles.
My thanks for that! the dead for me
Have little charm; my humor seeks
The bloom of lusty life, with plump and rosy cheeks;
For a vile corpse my tooth is far too nice,
I do just as the cat does with the mice.
The Lord.
So be it; meanwhile, to tempt him thou are free;
Go, drag this spirit from his native fount,
And lead him on, canst thou his will surmount,
Into perdition down with thee;
But stand ashamed at last, when thou shalt see
An honest man, ’mid all his strivings dark,
Finds the right way, though lit but by a spark.
