MEPHISTOPHELES: 
Thanks. 
And that is all I ask; for willingly
I never make acquaintance with the dead. 80
The full fresh cheeks of youth are food for me,
And if a corpse knocks, I am not at home. 
For I am like a cat—­I like to play
A little with the mouse before I eat it.

THE LORD: 
Well, well! it is permitted thee.  Draw thou 85
His spirit from its springs; as thou find’st power
Seize him and lead him on thy downward path;
And stand ashamed when failure teaches thee
That a good man, even in his darkest longings,
Is well aware of the right way.

MEPHISTOPHELES: 
Well and good. 90
I am not in much doubt about my bet,
And if I lose, then ’tis Your turn to crow;
Enjoy Your triumph then with a full breast. 
Ay; dust shall he devour, and that with pleasure,
Like my old paramour, the famous Snake. 95

THE LORD: 
Pray come here when it suits you; for I never
Had much dislike for people of your sort. 
And, among all the Spirits who rebelled,
The knave was ever the least tedious to Me. 
The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon 100
He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I
Have given him the Devil for a companion,
Who may provoke him to some sort of work,
And must create forever.—­But ye, pure
Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty;—­ 105
Let that which ever operates and lives
Clasp you within the limits of its love;
And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts
The floating phantoms of its loveliness.

[HEAVEN CLOSES; THE ARCHANGELS EXEUNT.]

MEPHISTOPHELES: 
From time to time I visit the old fellow, 110
And I take care to keep on good terms with Him. 
Civil enough is the same God Almighty,
To talk so freely with the Devil himself.

SCENE 2.—­MAY-DAY NIGHT.

THE HARTZ MOUNTAIN, A DESOLATE COUNTRY.

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES.

MEPHISTOPHELES: 
Would you not like a broomstick?  As for me
I wish I had a good stout ram to ride;
For we are still far from the appointed place.

FAUST: 
This knotted staff is help enough for me,
Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs.  What good 5
Is there in making short a pleasant way? 
To creep along the labyrinths of the vales,
And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs,
Precipitate themselves in waterfalls,
Is the true sport that seasons such a path. 10
Already Spring kindles the birchen spray,
And the hoar pines already feel her breath: 
Shall she not work also within our limbs?