Mephistopheles. Sith thou, O Lord, approachest near, And how we fare would'st fain have information, And thou of old wert glad to see me here, I stand to-day amid the courtly nation. Pardon; no words of fine address I know, Nor could, though all should hoot me down with sneers; My pathos would move laughter, and not tears, Wert thou not weaned from laughter long ago. Of suns and worlds I've nought to say, I only see how men must fret their lives away. The little god o' the world jogs and jogs on, the same As when from ruddy clay he took his name; And, sooth to say, remains a riddle, just As much as when you shaped him from the dust. Perhaps a little better he had thriven, Had he not got the show of glimmering light from heaven: He calls it reason, and it makes him free To be more brutish than a brute can be; He is, methinks, with reverence of your grace, Like one of the long-leggèd race Of grasshoppers that leap in the air, and spring, And straightway in the grass the same old song they sing; 'Twere well that from the grass he never rose, On every stubble he must break his nose! The Lord. Hast thou then nothing more to say? And art thou here again to-day To vent thy grudge in peevish spite Against the earth, still finding nothing right? Mephistopheles. True, Lord; I find things there no better than before; I must confess I do deplore Man's hopeless case, and scarce have heart myself To torture the poor miserable elf. The Lord. Dost thou know Faust? Mephistopheles. The Doctor? The Lord. Ay: my servant. Mephistopheles. Indeed! and of his master's will observant, In fashion quite peculiar to himself; His food and drink are of no earthly taste, A restless fever drives him to the waste. Himself half seems to understand How his poor wits have run astrand; From heaven he asks each loveliest star, Earth's chiefest joy must jump to his demand, And all that's near, and all that's far, Soothes not his deep-moved spirit's war. The Lord. Though for a time he blindly grope his way, Soon will I lead him into open day; Well knows the gardener, when green shoots appear, That bloom and fruit await the ripening year. Mephistopheles. What wager you? you yet shall lose that soul! Only give me full license, and you'll see How I shall lead him softly to my goal. The Lord. As long as on the earth he lives Thou hast my license full and free; Man still must stumble while he strives. Mephistopheles. My thanks for that! the dead for me Have little charm; my humor seeks The bloom of lusty life, with plump and rosy cheeks; For a vile corpse my tooth is far too nice, I do just as the cat does with the mice.