©Biblioteca Nacional de Colombia

116 FAUST
Poor devil, in thy degree Il wherewithal
To wile and win us; delicates unoloying
Ar&-are they not ?-among those lures of thine?
Yea! hast thou the red gold that restlessly
Like quicksilver slides from the hand-a game
At which none wins, yet is it play 1-a girl
That with her lavish arms around my breast,
With willing eyes ogles and wooes another.
-And splendour hast thou ?-rank-wilt give me
these?
The starlight meteors of ambition's heav'n?
Aye! let me see this pleasant fruit of thine
That rots before we gather it-the trees
That each day bud and bloom anew.'
MEPmSTOPHELES. Fine things to fancy!-to be
sure you shall
Have this or any thing you wish to ask for,­
Something less spiritual were something better;
But by and by we'll find the Doctor's taste
Improving,-we'll have our own pleasant places,
And our tit· bits-and our snug little parties,
And-what will keep the Doctor's spirit quiet;­
-I promise you, you'll feel what comfort is.
FAUST. Comfort and quiet !-no, no! none of these
For m&-I ask them not-I seek them not.
If ever I upon the bed of sloth
Lie down and rest, then be the hour, in which
I so lie down and rest, my last of life.
Canst thou by falsehood or by flattery
Delude me into self· complacent smiles,
Cheat me into tranquillity? come, then.
And welcome life's last day-be this our wager.
!IEPmSTOPHELES. Done.
FAUST. Done, say I-clench we at once the bargain­
(f ever time should flow so calmly on,
Soothing my spirits into such oblivion,
That in the pleasant trance I would arrest,
1 The worlde that neweth every daie.
Gower, Con/essio Amanti6.
©Biblioteca Nacional de Colombia