Faust. Still must I suffer, clothe me as you may, This narrow earthly life's incumbrancy; Too old I am to be content with play, Too young from every longing to be free. What can the world hold forth for me to gain? Abstain, it saith, and still it saith, Abstain! This is the burden of the song That in our ears eternal rings, Life's dreary litany lean and long, That each dull moment hoarsely sings. With terror wake I in the morn from sleep, And bitter tears might often weep, To see the day, when its dull course is run, That brings to fruit not one small wish,--not one! That, with capricious criticising, Each taste of joy within my bosom rising, Ere it be born, destroys, and in my breast Chokes every thought that gives existence zest, With thousand soulless trifles of an hour. And when the dark night-shadows lower, I seek to ease my aching brain Upon a weary couch in vain. With throngs of feverish dreams possessed, Even in the home of sleep I find no rest; The god, that in my bosom dwells, Can stir my being's inmost wells; But he who sways supreme our finer stuff, Moves not the outward world, hard, obdurate, and tough. Thus my existence is a load of woes, Death my best friend, and life my worst of foes. Mephistopheles. And yet methinks this friend you call your best, Is seldom, when he comes, a welcome guest. Faust. Oh! happy he to whom, in victory's glance, Death round his brow the bloody laurel winds! Whom, 'mid the circling hurry of the dance, Locked in a maiden's close embrace he finds; O! would to God that I had sunk that night In tranceful death before the Spirit's might! Mephistopheles. Yet, on a certain night, a certain man was slow To drink a certain brown potation out. Faust. It seems 'tis your delight to play the scout. Mephistopheles. Omniscient am I not; but many things I know. Faust. If, in that moment's wild confusion, A well-known tone of blithesome youth Had power, by memory's dear delusion, To cheat me with the guise of truth; Then curse I all whate'er the soul With luring juggleries entwines, And in this gloomy dungeon-hole With dazzling flatteries confines! Curst be 'fore all the high opinion The soul has of its own dominion! Curst all the show of shallow seeming, Through gates of sense fallacious streaming! Curst be the hollow dreams of fame, Of honor, glory, and a name! Curst be the flattering goods of earth, Wife, child, and servant, house and hearth! Accursed be Mammon, when with treasures To riskful venture he invites us, Curst when, the slaves of passive pleasures, On soft-spread cushions he delights us! Curst be the balsam juice o' the grape! Accursed be love's deceitful thrall! Accursed be Hope! accursed be Faith! Accursed be Patience above all!