_Meph._ Ay, and so they are! Vows not to dream of the gay world without-- Vows not to sigh for temporal vanities-- Vows so to chasten, quell, and mortify Your natural craving for a woman’s love, That it shall sicken, wither, starve and die From lack of sustenance! Rare vows, and rarely kept, I make no doubt! Why, man, you break them every day you live; You break them when you weep upon the grave Of broken hopes and blighted sympathies-- Of wrecked ambitions, and the hundred tombs That crowd this solitary sepulchre! You break them when you let your memory loose To revel in the rich, ripe luxury Of luscious lips, soft cheeks and glancing eyes, The violet breath--the press of warm, soft hands, Or the crisp frettle of disordered hair, That wooed your flaming cheek, as, half ashamed, The maiden nestled, blushing, on your breast-- And yet you plead your vows! Like some I know Who pray for mankind in the aggregate, And damn them all in detail! _Faus._ Tempt me not. I left the world of women for these walls, Because I found a woman false as thou-- I’ll not return. _Meph._ Illogical again. “As one is so are all.” Sound argument! You gather generals from particulars Like all your brood. Why, there’s no harm in women. _I_ didn’t make them! They’re my deadliest foes! Why, he who of his own unfettered will Cuts himself off from pure communion With blameless womanhood, withdraws himself From a far holier influence than he finds Within these sad and silent solitudes. _Faus._ Strange sentiments from such as thou! _Meph._ For that We devils, as you Churchmen please to call us, Are not the simple folk you take us for; We are shrewd fellows in our homely way, And look facts in the face. I know a maid, A fair and gentle girl--the pink and bloom Of all that’s loveliest in maidenhood, Whose simple truth and pure and blameless life Have done my cause more harm in eighteen years Than all the monks in Christendom can mend! _Faus._ Is this indeed the truth? _Meph._ Ay, though I tell it. _Faus._ If there live such a one as thou hast painted-- A maiden--pure as the blue breath of heaven, Into whose virgin heart no dream of ill Hath ever crept--the bloom of whose pure lips Is yet unbrushed by man’s polluting touch; Whose life is open as the very truth-- A perfect type of blameless maidenhood, Take me to her, and I _will_ learn of her. _Meph._ Humph! No, I’d rather not. _Faus._ And why?