Faust [part 1]. Translated Into English in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
MEPHISTOPHELES
These are the small dependants Who give me attendance. Hear them, to deeds and passion Counsel in shrewd old-fashion! Into the world of strife, Out of this lonely life That of senses and sap has betrayed thee, They would persuade thee. This nursing of the pain forego thee, That, like a vulture, feeds upon thy breast! The worst society thou find’st will show thee Thou art a man among the rest. But ’tis not meant to thrust Thee into the mob thou hatest! I am not one of the greatest, Yet, wilt thou to me entrust Thy steps through life, I’ll guide thee,— Will willingly walk beside thee,— Will serve thee at once and forever With best endeavor, And, if thou art satisfied, Will as servant, slave, with thee abide. And what shall be my counter-service therefor? The time is long: thou need’st not now insist. No—no! The Devil is an egotist, And is not apt, without a why or wherefore, “For God’s sake,” others to assist. Speak thy conditions plain and clear! With such a servant danger comes, I fear. _Here_, an unwearied slave, I’ll wear thy tether, And to thine every nod obedient be: When _There_ again we come together, Then shalt thou do the same for me. The _There_ my scruples naught increases. When thou hast dashed this world to pieces, The other, then, its place may fill. Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources; Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses; And when from these my life itself divorces, Let happen all that can or will! I’ll hear no more: ’tis vain to ponder If there we cherish love or hate, Or, in the spheres we dream of yonder, A High and Low our souls await.
In this sense, even, canst thou venture. Come, bind thyself by prompt indenture, And thou mine arts with joy shalt see: What no man ever saw, I’ll give to thee. Canst thou, poor Devil, give me whatsoever? When was a human soul, in its supreme endeavor, E’er understood by such as thou? Yet, hast thou food which never satiates, now,— The restless, ruddy gold hast thou, That runs, quicksilver-like, one’s fingers through,— A game whose winnings no man ever knew,— A maid that, even from my breast, Beckons my neighbor with her wanton glances, And Honor’s godlike zest, The meteor that a moment dances,— Show me the fruits that, ere they’re gathered, rot, And trees that daily with new leafage clothe them! Such a demand alarms me not: Such treasures have I, and can show them. But still the time may reach us, good my friend. When peace we crave and more luxurious diet. When on an idler’s bed I stretch myself in quiet. There let, at once, my record end! Canst thou with lying flattery rule me, Until, self-pleased, myself I see,— Canst thou with rich enjoyment fool me, Let that day be the last for me! The bet I offer. MEPHISTOPHELES Done! FAUST And heartily! When thus I hail the Moment flying: “Ah, still delay—thou art so fair!” Then bind me in thy bonds undying, My final ruin then declare! Then let the death-bell chime the token. Then art thou from thy service free! The clock may stop, the hand be broken, Then Time be finished unto me! Consider well: my memory good is rated. Thou hast a perfect right thereto. My powers I have not rashly estimated: A slave am I, whate’er I do— If thine, or whose? ’tis needless to debate it. Then at the Doctors’-banquet I, to-day, Will as a servant wait behind thee. But one thing more! Beyond all risk to bind thee, Give me a line or two, I pray.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.