Faust. Poor devil, what hast thou to give, By which a human soul may live? By thee or thine was never yet divined The thought that stirs the deep heart of mankind! True, thou hast food that sateth never, And yellow gold that, restless ever, Like quicksilver between the fingers, Only to escape us, lingers; A game where we are sure to lose our labor, A maiden that, while hanging on my breast, Flings looks of stolen dalliance on my neighbor; And honor by which gods are blest, That, like a meteor, vanishes in air. Show me the fruit that rots _before_ 'tis broken, And trees that day by day their green repair! Mephistopheles. A word of mighty meaning thou hast spoken, Yet such commission makes not me despair. Believe me, friend, we only need to try it, And we too may enjoy our morsel sweet in quiet. Faust. If ever on a couch of soft repose My soul shall rock at ease, If thou canst teach with sweet delusive shows Myself myself to please, If thou canst trick me with a toy To say sincerely I /enjoy/, Then may my latest sand be run! A wager on it! Mephistopheles. Done! Faust. And done, and done! When to the moment I shall say, Stay, thou art so lovely, stay! Then with thy fetters bind me round, Then perish I with cheerful glee! Then may the knell of death resound, Then from thy service art thou free! The clock may stand, And the falling hand Mark the time no more for me! Mephistopheles. Consider well: in things like these The devil's memory is not apt to slip. Faust. That I know well; may'st keep thy heart at ease, No random word hath wandered o'er my lip. Slave I remain, or here, or there, Thine, or another's, I little care. Mephistopheles. My duty I'll commence without delay, When with the graduates you dine to-day. One thing remains!--black upon white A line or two, to make the bargain tight. Faust. A writing, pedant!--hast thou never found A man whose word was better than his bond? Is't not enough that by my spoken word, Of all I am and shall be thou art lord? The world drives on, wild wave engulfing wave, And shall a line bind me, if I would be a knave? Yet 'tis a whim deep-graven in the heart, And from such fancies who would gladly part? Happy within whose honest breast concealed There lives a faith, nor time nor chance can shake; Yet still a parchment, written, stamped, and sealed, A spectre is before which all must quake. Commit but once thy word to the goose-feather, Then must thou yield the sway to wax and leather. Say, devil--paper, parchment, stone, or brass? With me this coin or that will pass; Style, or chisel, or pen shall it be? Thou hast thy choice of all the three.