The sovereign lord of rats and mice, Of flies and frogs and bugs and lice, Commands thee to come forth this hour, And gnaw this threshold with great power, As he with oil the same shall smear-- Ha! with a skip e'en now thou'rt here! But brisk to work! The point by which I'm cowered, Is on the ledge, the farthest forward. Yet one more bite, the deed is done.-- Now, Faust, until we meet again, dream on!
_Faust_. [_Waking_.] Again has witchcraft triumphed o'er me? Was it a ghostly show, so soon withdrawn? I dream, the devil stands himself before me--wake, to find a poodle gone!
_Faust_. A knock? Walk in! Who comes again to tease me?
_Mephistopheles_. Must say it thrice, to please me.
_Mephistopheles_. That I like to hear. We shall, I hope, bear with each other; For to dispel thy crotchets, brother, As a young lord, I now appear, In scarlet dress, trimmed with gold lacing, A stiff silk cloak with stylish facing, A tall cock's feather in my hat, A long, sharp rapier to defend me, And I advise thee, short and flat, In the same costume to attend me; If thou wouldst, unembarrassed, see What sort of thing this life may be.
_Faust_. In every dress I well may feel the sore Of this low earth-life's melancholy. I am too old to live for folly, Too young, to wish for nothing more. Am I content with all creation? Renounce! renounce! Renunciation-- Such is the everlasting song That in the ears of all men rings, Which every hour, our whole life long, With brazen accents hoarsely sings. With terror I behold each morning's light, With bitter tears my eyes are filling, To see the day that shall not in its flight Fulfil for me one wish, not one, but killing Every presentiment of zest With wayward skepticism, chases The fair creations from my breast With all life's thousand cold grimaces. And when at night I stretch me on my bed And darkness spreads its shadow o'er me; No rest comes then anigh my weary head, Wild dreams and spectres dance before me. The God who dwells within my soul Can heave its depths at any hour; Who holds o'er all my faculties control Has o'er the outer world no power; Existence lies a load upon my breast, Life is a curse and death a long'd-for rest.
_Mephistopheles_. And yet death never proves a wholly welcome guest.