To breathe her balmy atmosphere,
She seems to melt and disappear,
And cheats my longing eye.
Oh she is fair beyond all type of human!
Is’t possible; can this be simple woman?
There lies she, on that downy couch reposing,
Within herself the heaven of heavens enclosing!
Can it then be that earth a thing so fair contains?
Mephistopheles.
Of course: for when a god has vexed his brains
For six long days, and, when his work is done,
Says bravo to himself, is it a wonder
He should make one fair thing without a blunder?
For this time give thine eyes their pleasure;
I know how to procure you such an one,
Whence thou mayst drink delight in brimming measure,
And blest the man, for whom Fate shall decide,
To lead home such a treasure as his bride!
[Faust continues gazing on the mirror. Mephistopheles stretches himself on the arm-chair, and, playing with the brush, goes on as follows:]
Here, from my throne, a monarch, I look down:
My sceptre this: I wait to get my crown.
The Animals. [Who had in the interval been wheeling about with strange antic gestures, bring a crown to Mephistopheles, with loud shouts.]
O be but so good,
With sweat and with blood,
Your crown to glue,
As monarchs do!
[They use the crown rather roughly, in consequence of which it falls into two pieces, with which they jump about.]
O sorrow and shame!
’Tis broken, no doubt:
But we’ll make a name,
When our poem comes out!
Faust. [gazing on the mirror]
Woe’s me! her beauty doth my wits confound.
Mephistopheles. [pointing to the Brutes]
And even my good brain is whirling round and round.
The Brutes.
And if we well speed,
As speed well we ought,
We are makers indeed,
We are moulders of thought.
