iling
Bewailing
All the departed beauty.
Lordlier
Than all sons of men,
Proudlier
Build it again,
Build it up in thy breast anew!
A fresh career pursue,
Before thee
A clearer view,
And, from the Empyrean,
A new-born Paean
Shall greet thee, too!

_Mephistopheles_. Be pleased to admire
My juvenile choir!
Hear how they counsel in manly measure
Action and pleasure!
Out into life,
Its joy and strife,
Away from this lonely hole,
Where senses and soul
Rot in stagnation,
Calls thee their high invitation.

Give over toying with thy sorrow
Which like a vulture feeds upon thy heart;
Thou shalt, in the worst company, to-morrow
Feel that with men a man thou art.
Yet I do not exactly intend
Among the canaille to plant thee.
I'm none of your magnates, I grant thee;
Yet if thou art willing, my friend,
Through life to jog on beside me,
Thy pleasure in all things shall guide me,
To thee will I bind me,
A friend thou shalt find me,
And, e'en to the grave,
Shalt make me thy servant, make me thy slave!

_Faust_. And in return what service shall I render?

_Mephistopheles_. There's ample grace--no hurry, not the least.

_Faust_. No, no, the devil is an egotist,
And does not easily "for God's sake" tender
That which a neighbor may assist.
Speak plainly the conditions, come!
'Tis dangerous taking such a servant home.

_Mephistopheles_. I to thy service _here_ agree to bind me,
To run and never rest at call of thee;
When _over yonder_ thou shalt find me,
Then thou shalt do as much for me.

_Faust_. I care not much what's over yonder:
When thou hast knocked this world asunder,
Come if it will the other may!
Up from this earth my pleasures all are streaming,
Down on my woes this earthly sun is beaming;
Let me but end this fit of dreaming,
Then come what will, I've nought to say.
I'll hear no more of barren wonder
If in that world they hate and love,
And whether in that future yonder
There's a Below and an Above.

_Mephistopheles._ In such a mood thou well mayst venture.
Bind thyself to me, and by this indenture
Thou shalt enjoy with relish keen
Fruits of my arts that man had never seen.

_Faust_. And what hast thou to give, poor devil?
Was e'er a human mind, upon its lofty level,
Conceived of by the like of thee?
Yet hast thou food that brings satiety,
Not satisfaction; gold that reftlessly,
Like quicksilver, melts down