Faust.  And what hast thou to give, poor devil? 
Was e’er a human mind, upon its lofty level,
Conceived of by the like of thee? 
Yet hast thou food that brings satiety,
Not satisfaction; gold that reftlessly,
Like quicksilver, melts down within
The hands; a game in which men never win;
A maid that, hanging on my breast,
Ogles a neighbor with her wanton glances;
Of fame the glorious godlike zest,
That like a short-lived meteor dances—­
Show me the fruit that, ere it’s plucked, will rot,
And trees from which new green is daily peeping!

Mephistopheles.  Such a requirement scares me not;
Such treasures have I in my keeping. 
Yet shall there also come a time, good friend,
When we may feast on good things at our leisure.

Faust.  If e’er I lie content upon a lounge of pleasure—­
Then let there be of me an end! 
When thou with flattery canst cajole me,
Till I self-satisfied shall be,
When thou with pleasure canst befool me,
Be that the last of days for me! 
I lay the wager!

Mephistopheles.  Done!

Faust.  And heartily! 
Whenever to the passing hour
I cry:  O stay! thou art so fair! 
To chain me down I give thee power
To the black bottom of despair! 
Then let my knell no longer linger,
Then from my service thou art free,
Fall from the clock the index-finger,
Be time all over, then, for me!

Mephistopheles.  Think well, for we shall hold you to the letter.

Faust.  Full right to that just now I gave;
I spoke not as an idle braggart better. 
Henceforward I remain a slave,
What care I who puts on the setter?

Mephistopheles.  I shall this very day, at Doctor’s-feast,[16]
My bounden service duly pay thee. 
But one thing!—­For insurance’ sake, I pray thee,
Grant me a line or two, at least.

Faust.  Pedant! will writing gain thy faith, alone? 
In all thy life, no man, nor man’s word hast thou known? 
Is’t not enough that I the fatal word
That passes on my future days have spoken? 
The world-stream raves and rushes (hast not heard?)
And shall a promise hold, unbroken? 
Yet this delusion haunts the human breast,
Who from his soul its roots would sever? 
Thrice happy in whose heart pure truth finds rest. 
No sacrifice shall he repent of ever! 
But from a formal, written, sealed attest,
As from a spectre, all men shrink forever. 
The word and spirit die together,
Killed by the sight of wax and leather. 
What wilt thou, evil sprite, from me? 
Brass, marble, parchment, paper, shall it be? 
Shall I subscribe with pencil, pen or graver? 
Among them all thy choice is free.

Mephistopheles.  This rhetoric of thine to me
Hath a somewhat bombastic savor. 
Any small scrap of paper’s good. 
Thy signature will need a single drop of blood.[17]