MEPHISTOPHELES

Blood is a juice of rarest quality.

FAUST

Fear not that I this pact shall seek to sever? 
The promise that I make to thee
Is just the sum of my endeavor. 
I have myself inflated all too high;
My proper place is thy estate: 
The Mighty Spirit deigns me no reply,
And Nature shuts on me her gate. 
The thread of Thought at last is broken,
And knowledge brings disgust unspoken. 
Let us the sensual deeps explore,
To quench the fervors of glowing passion! 
Let every marvel take form and fashion
Through the impervious veil it wore! 
Plunge we in Time’s tumultuous dance,
In the rush and roll of Circumstance! 
Then may delight and distress,
And worry and success,
Alternately follow, as best they can: 
Restless activity proves the man!

MEPHISTOPHELES

For you no bound, no term is set. 
Whether you everywhere be trying,
Or snatch a rapid bliss in flying,
May it agree with you, what you get! 
Only fall to, and show no timid balking.

FAUST

But thou hast heard, ’tis not of joy we’re talking. 
I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment’s keenest pain,
Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain. 
My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated,
Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested,
And all of life for all mankind created
Shall be within mine inmost being tested: 
The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow,
Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow,
And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded,
I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Believe me, who for many a thousand year
The same tough meat have chewed and tested,
That from the cradle to the bier
No man the ancient leaven has digested! 
Trust one of us, this Whole supernal
Is made but for a God’s delight!
He dwells in splendor single and eternal,
But us he thrusts in darkness, out of sight,
And you he dowers with Day and Night.

FAUST

Nay, but I will!

MEPHISTOPHELES

A good reply! 
One only fear still needs repeating: 
The art is long, the time is fleeting. 
Then let thyself be taught, say I! 
Go, league thyself with a poet,
Give the rein to his imagination,
Then wear the crown, and show it,
Of the qualities of his creation,—­
The courage of the lion’s breed,
The wild stag’s speed,
The Italian’s fiery blood,
The North’s firm fortitude! 
Let him find for thee the secret tether
That binds the Noble and Mean together. 
And teach thy pulses of youth and pleasure
To love by rule, and hate by measure! 
I’d like, myself, such a one to see: 
Sir Microcosm his name should be.