Faust.
But I must know it.
Mephistopheles.
Good! the poorest man may try it,
Without or witch, or quack, or gold to buy it;
And yet it works a certain cure.
Go take thee with the peasant to the moor,
And straight begin to hew and hack;
Confine thee there, with patient mood,
Within the narrow beaten track,
And nourish thee with simplest food;
Live with the brute a brute, and count it not too low
To dung the corn-fields thine own hands shall mow;
Than this I know on earth no med’cine stronger,
To make, by fourscore years, both soul and body younger!
Faust.
I was not trained to this—was never made
To labor with the pick-axe and the spade;
Such narrow round of life I may not brook.
Mephistopheles.
Then you must look into another book,
And be content to take the witch for cook.
Faust.
But why this self-same ugly Jezebel?
Could you not brew the drink yourself as well?
Mephistopheles.
A precious pastime that indeed! meanwhile
I had built bridges many a German mile.
Not art, and science strict, are here enough,
But patience too, and perseverance tough.
A thoughtful soul toils on through many a silent year.
Time only makes the busy ferment clear,
Besides that the ingredients all
Are passing strange and mystical!
’Tis true the devil taught them how to do it,
But not the devil with his own hands can brew it.
[Looking at the Cat-Apes.] Lo! what a tiny gay parade!
Here’s the man, and there’s the maid!
[Addressing them.] It seems that your good mother has gone out?
The Cat-Apes.
