MEPHISTOPHELES

These are the small dependants
Who give me attendance. 
Hear them, to deeds and passion
Counsel in shrewd old-fashion! 
Into the world of strife,
Out of this lonely life
That of senses and sap has betrayed thee,
They would persuade thee. 
This nursing of the pain forego thee,
That, like a vulture, feeds upon thy breast! 
The worst society thou find’st will show thee
Thou art a man among the rest. 
But ’tis not meant to thrust
Thee into the mob thou hatest! 
I am not one of the greatest,
Yet, wilt thou to me entrust
Thy steps through life, I’ll guide thee,—­
Will willingly walk beside thee,—­
Will serve thee at once and forever
With best endeavor,
And, if thou art satisfied,
Will as servant, slave, with thee abide.

FAUST

And what shall be my counter-service therefor?

MEPHISTOPHELES

The time is long:  thou need’st not now insist.

FAUST

No—­no!  The Devil is an egotist,
And is not apt, without a why or wherefore,
“For God’s sake,” others to assist. 
Speak thy conditions plain and clear! 
With such a servant danger comes, I fear.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Here, an unwearied slave, I’ll wear thy tether, And to thine every nod obedient be:  When There again we come together, Then shalt thou do the same for me.

FAUST

The There my scruples naught increases. 
When thou hast dashed this world to pieces,
The other, then, its place may fill. 
Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources;
Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses;
And when from these my life itself divorces,
Let happen all that can or will! 
I’ll hear no more:  ’tis vain to ponder
If there we cherish love or hate,
Or, in the spheres we dream of yonder,
A High and Low our souls await.

MEPHISTOPHELES

In this sense, even, canst thou venture. 
Come, bind thyself by prompt indenture,
And thou mine arts with joy shalt see: 
What no man ever saw, I’ll give to thee.

FAUST

Canst thou, poor Devil, give me whatsoever? 
When was a human soul, in its supreme endeavor,
E’er understood by such as thou? 
Yet, hast thou food which never satiates, now,—­
The restless, ruddy gold hast thou,
That runs, quicksilver-like, one’s fingers through,—­
A game whose winnings no man ever knew,—­
A maid that, even from my breast,
Beckons my neighbor with her wanton glances,
And Honor’s godlike zest,
The meteor that a moment dances,—­
Show me the fruits that, ere they’re gathered, rot,
And trees that daily with new leafage clothe them!