 | Faust |  |
SCENE VIII.
A Street.FAUST.
How now? what news? how speed your labours?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Bravo! 'tis well you are on fire,
Soon shall you have your heart's desire.
This evening you shall meet her at her neighbour's:
A dame 'tis to a nicety made
For the bawd and gipsey trade.
FAUST.
'Tis well.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
But you must lend a hand, and so must I.
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One good turn deserves another.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
We must appear before a judge together,
And solemnly there testify,
That stiff and stark her worthy spouse doth lie,
Beside the shrine of holy Antony.
FAUST.
Most wise! we must first make a goodly travel!
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Sancta simplicitas! what stuff you drivel!
We may make oath and not know much about it.
FAUST.
Hast thou no other plan?—'tis dished—I scout it.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
O holy man that would outwit the devil!
Is it the first time in your life that you
Have sworn to what you knew could not be true?
Of God, the world, and all that it contains,
Of man, and all that circles in his veins,
Or dwells within the compass of his brains,
Have you not pompous definitions given,
With swelling breast and dogmatizing brow,
As if you were an oracle from heaven?
And yet, if to the bottom you would go,
You knew as much of all these things, in faith,
As now you know of Master Schwerdtlein's death!
FAUST.
Thou art, and wert, a sophist and a liar.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Yes, unless one could mount a little higher.
To-morrow I shall hear you pour
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Swear to do every thing to serve her,
And love her with a quenchless fervour.
FAUST.
And from my heart too.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Oh! of course, of course!
Then will you speak, till you are hoarse,
Of love, and constancy, and truth,
And feelings of eternal youth—
Will that too be the simple sooth?
FAUST.
It will! it will!—for when I feel,
And for the feeling, the confusion
Of feelings, that absorbs my mind,
Seek for names, and none can find,
Sweep through the universe's girth,
For every highest word to give it birth;
And then this soul-pervading flame,
Infinite, endless, endless name,
Call you this nought but devilish delusion?
MEPHISTOPHELES.
Still I am right!
FAUST.
Hold! mark me this!
I prythee spare my lungs, for true it is—
Who will be right, and only has a tongue,
Is never wrong.
Come, I confess thee master in debating,
That I may be delivered from thy prating.
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