A question small, it seems,
For one whose mind the Word so much despises;
Who, scorning all external gleams,
The depths of being only prizes.

FAUST

With all you gentlemen, the name’s a test,
Whereby the nature usually is expressed. 
Clearly the latter it implies
In names like Beelzebub, Destroyer, Father of Lies. 
Who art thou, then?

MEPHISTOPHELES

Part of that Power, not understood,
Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good.

FAUST

What hidden sense in this enigma lies?

MEPHISTOPHELES

I am the Spirit that Denies! 
And justly so:  for all things, from the Void
Called forth, deserve to be destroyed: 
’Twere better, then, were naught created. 
Thus, all which you as Sin have rated,—­
Destruction,—­aught with Evil blent,—­
That is my proper element.

FAUST

Thou nam’st thyself a part, yet show’st complete to me?

MEPHISTOPHELES

The modest truth I speak to thee. 
If Man, that microcosmic fool, can see
Himself a whole so frequently,
Part of the Part am I, once All, in primal Night,—­
Part of the Darkness which brought forth the Light,
The haughty Light, which now disputes the space,
And claims of Mother Night her ancient place. 
And yet, the struggle fails; since Light, howe’er it weaves,
Still, fettered, unto bodies cleaves: 
It flows from bodies, bodies beautifies;
By bodies is its course impeded;
And so, but little time is needed,
I hope, ere, as the bodies die, it dies!

FAUST

I see the plan thou art pursuing: 
Thou canst not compass general ruin,
And hast on smaller scale begun.

MEPHISTOPHELES

And truly ’tis not much, when all is done. 
That which to Naught is in resistance set,—­
The Something of this clumsy world,—­has yet,
With all that I have undertaken,
Not been by me disturbed or shaken: 
From earthquake, tempest, wave, volcano’s brand,
Back into quiet settle sea and land! 
And that damned stuff, the bestial, human brood,—­
What use, in having that to play with? 
How many have I made away with! 
And ever circulates a newer, fresher blood. 
It makes me furious, such things beholding: 
From Water, Earth, and Air unfolding,
A thousand germs break forth and grow,
In dry, and wet, and warm, and chilly;
And had I not the Flame reserved, why, really,
There’s nothing special of my own to show!