Mephistopheles. [_coming near the fire_] And this pot? Father Cat-Ape and his Wife. The silly sot! He knows not the pot! And he knows not The kettle, the sot! Mephistopheles. You ill-bred urchin, you! The Father Cat-Ape. Come, sit thee down, We'll give thee a crown, And a sceptre too! [_He obliges_ /Mephistopheles/ _to sit down, and gives him a long brush for a sceptre._ Faust. [_Who, while_ /Mephistopheles/ _was engaged with the animals,_ /Faust/ _had been standing before a mirror, alternately approaching it and retiring from it._] What see I here? what heavenly image bright, Within this magic mirror, chains my sight? O Love, the swiftest of thy pinions lend me, That where she is in rapture I may bend me! Alas! when I would move one step more near, To breathe her balmy atmosphere, She seems to melt and disappear, And cheats my longing eye. Oh she is fair beyond all type of human! Is't possible; can this be simple woman? There lies she, on that downy couch reposing, Within herself the heaven of heavens enclosing! Can it then be that earth a thing so fair contains? Mephistopheles. Of course: for when a god has vexed his brains For six long days, and, when his work is done, Says bravo to himself, is it a wonder He should make one fair thing without a blunder? For this time give thine eyes their pleasure; I know how to procure you such an one, Whence thou mayst drink delight in brimming measure, And blest the man, for whom Fate shall decide, To lead home such a treasure as his bride! [/Faust/ _continues gazing on the mirror._ /Mephistopheles/ _stretches himself on the arm-chair, and, playing with the brush, goes on as follows:_] Here, from my throne, a monarch, I look down: My sceptre this: I wait to get my crown. The Animals. [_Who had in the interval been wheeling about with strange antic gestures, bring a crown to_ /Mephistopheles/, _with loud shouts._] O be but so good, With sweat and with blood, Your crown to glue, As monarchs do! [_They use the crown rather roughly, in consequence of which it falls into two pieces, with which they jump about._] O sorrow and shame! 'Tis broken, no doubt: But we'll make a name, When our poem comes out! Faust. [_gazing on the mirror_] Woe's me! her beauty doth my wits confound. Mephistopheles. [_pointing to the Brutes_] And even my good brain is whirling round and round. The Brutes. And if we well speed, As speed well we ought, We are makers indeed, We are moulders of thought. Faust. [_as above_] I burn, I burn! this rapturous glow Consumes me sheer!--come, let us go! Mephistopheles. [_as above_] One must, at least, confess that they Are honest poets in their way.