Faust.  If this will satisfy thy mood, I will consent thy whim to favor.

Mephistopheles. Quite a peculiar juice is blood.

Faust.  Fear not that I shall break this bond; O, never! 
My promise, rightly understood,
Fulfils my nature’s whole endeavor. 
I’ve puffed myself too high, I see;
To thy rank only I belong. 
The Lord of Spirits scorneth me,
Nature, shut up, resents the wrong. 
The thread of thought is snapt asunder,
All science to me is a stupid blunder. 
Let us in sensuality’s deep
Quench the passions within us blazing! 
And, the veil of sorcery raising,
Wake each miracle from its long sleep! 
Plunge we into the billowy dance,
The rush and roll of time and chance! 
Then may pleasure and distress,
Disappointment and success,
Follow each other as fast as they will;
Man’s restless activity flourishes still.

Mephistopheles.  No bound or goal is set to you;
Where’er you like to wander sipping,
And catch a tit-bit in your skipping,
Eschew all coyness, just fall to,
And may you find a good digestion!

Faust.  Now, once for all, pleasure is not the question. 
I’m sworn to passion’s whirl, the agony of bliss,
The lover’s hate, the sweets of bitterness. 
My heart, no more by pride of science driven,
Shall open wide to let each sorrow enter,
And all the good that to man’s race is given,
I will enjoy it to my being’s centre,
Through life’s whole range, upward and downward sweeping,
Their weal and woe upon my bosom heaping,
Thus in my single self their selves all comprehending
And with them in a common shipwreck ending.

Mephistopheles.  O trust me, who since first I fell from heaven,
Have chewed this tough meat many a thousand year,
No man digests the ancient leaven,
No mortal, from the cradle to the bier. 
Trust one of us—­the whole creation
To God alone belongs by right;
He has in endless day his habitation,
Us He hath made for utter night,
You for alternate dark and light.

Faust.  But then I will!

Mephistopheles.  Now that’s worth hearing! 
But one thing haunts me, the old song,
That time is short and art is long. 
You need some slight advice, I’m fearing. 
Take to you one of the poet-feather,
Let the gentleman’s thought, far-sweeping,
Bring all the noblest traits together,
On your one crown their honors heaping,
The lion’s mood
The stag’s rapidity,
The fiery blood of Italy,
The Northman’s hardihood. 
Bid him teach thee the art of combining
Greatness of soul with fly designing,
And how, with warm and youthful passion,
To fall in love by plan and fashion. 
Should like, myself, to come across ’m,
Would name him Mr. Microcosm.

Faust.  What am I then? if that for which my heart
Yearns with invincible endeavor,
The crown of man, must hang unreached forever?