Say, devil—paper, parchment, stone, or brass?
With me this coin or that will pass;
Style, or chisel, or pen shall it be?
Thou hast thy choice of all the three.
Mephistopheles.
What need of such a hasty flare
Of words about so paltry an affair?
Paper or parchment, any scrap will do,
Then write in blood your signature thereto.
Faust.
If this be all, there needs but small delay,
Such trifles shall not stand long in my way.
Mephistopheles. [while Faust is signing the paper]
Blood is a juice of most peculiar virtue.
Faust.
Only no fear that I shall e’er demur to
The bond as signed; my whole heart swears
Even to the letter that the parchment bears.
Too high hath soared my blown ambition;
I now take rank with thy condition;
The Mighty Spirit of All hath scorned me,
And Nature from her secrets spurned me:
My thread of thought is rent in twain,
All science I loathe with its wranglings vain.
In the depths of sensual joy, let us tame
Our glowing passion’s restless flame!
In magic veil, from unseen hand,
Be wonders ever at our command!
Plunge we into the rush of Time!
Into Action’s rolling main!
Then let pleasure and pain,
Loss and gain,
Joy and sorrow, alternate chime!
Let bright suns shine, or dark clouds lower,
The man that works is master of the hour.
Mephistopheles.
To thee I set nor bound nor measure,
Every dainty thou may’st snatch,
Every flying joy may’st catch,
Drink deep, and drain each cup of pleasure;
