Proctophantasmist.  What, and you still are here!  Unheard off obstinates! 
Begone!  We’ve cleared it up!  You shallow pates! 
The devilish pack from rules deliverance boasts. 
We’ve grown so wise, and Tegel[39] still sees ghosts. 
How long I’ve toiled to sweep these cobwebs from the brain,
And yet—­unheard of folly! all in vain.

The Fair one.  And yet on us the stupid bore still tries it!

Proctophantasmist.  I tell you spirits, to the face,
I give to spirit-tyranny no place,
My spirit cannot exercise it.
             [They dance on.]
I can’t succeed to-day, I know it;
Still, there’s the journey, which I like to make,
And hope, before the final step I take,
To rid the world of devil and of poet.

Mephistopheles.  You’ll see him shortly sit into a puddle,
In that way his heart is reassured;
When on his rump the leeches well shall fuddle,
Of spirits and of spirit he’ll be cured.
            [To FAUST, who has left the dance.]
Why let the lovely girl slip through thy fingers,
Who to thy dance so sweetly sang?

Faust.  Ah, right amidst her singing, sprang A wee red mouse from her mouth and made me cower.

Mephistopheles.  That’s nothing wrong!  You’re in a dainty way; Enough, the mouse at least wan’t gray.  Who minds such thing in happy amorous hour?

Faust.  Then saw I—­

Mephistopheles.  What?

Faust.  Mephisto, seest thou not
Yon pale, fair child afar, who stands so sad and lonely,
And moves so slowly from the spot,
Her feet seem locked, and she drags them only. 
I must confess, she seems to me
To look like my own good Margery.

Mephistopheles.  Leave that alone!  The sight no health can bring.
it is a magic shape, an idol, no live thing. 
To meet it never can be good! 
Its haggard look congeals a mortal’s blood,
And almost turns him into stone;
The story of Medusa thou hast known.

Faust.  Yes, ’tis a dead one’s eyes that stare upon me,
Eyes that no loving hand e’er closed;
That is the angel form of her who won me,
Tis the dear breast on which I once reposed.

Mephistopheles.  ’Tis sorcery all, thou fool, misled by passion’s dreams!  For she to every one his own love seems.

Faust.  What bliss! what woe!  Methinks I never
My sight from that sweet form can sever. 
Seeft thou, not thicker than a knife-blade’s back,
A small red ribbon, fitting sweetly
The lovely neck it clasps so neatly?

Mephistopheles.  I see the streak around her neck. 
Her head beneath her arm, you’ll next behold her;
Perseus has lopped it from her shoulder,—­
But let thy crazy passion rest! 
Come, climb with me yon hillock’s breast,
Was e’er the Prater[40] merrier then? 
And if no sorcerer’s charm is o’er me,
That is a theatre before me. 
What’s doing there?