_ Quite a
peculiar
juice is blood.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
Thrice happy in whose heart pure truth finds rest.
No sacrifice shall he repent of ever!
But from a formal, written, sealed attest,
As from a spectre, all men shrink forever.
The word and spirit die together,
Killed by the sight of wax and leather.
What wilt thou, evil sprite, from me?
Brass, marble, parchment, paper, shall it be?
Shall I subscribe with pencil, pen or graver?
Among them all thy choice is free.
_Mephistopheles_. This rhetoric of thine to me
Hath a somewhat bombastic savor.
Any small scrap of paper's good.
Thy signature will need a single drop of blood. [17]
_Faust_. If this will satisfy thy mood,
I will consent thy whim to favor.
_Mephistopheles.
_ Quite a peculiar juice is blood.
_Faust_. Fear not that I shall break this bond; O, never!
My promise, rightly understood,
Fulfils my nature's whole endeavor.
I've puffed myself too high, I see;
To _thy_ rank only I belong.
The Lord of Spirits scorneth me,
Nature, shut up, resents the wrong.
The thread of thought is snapt asunder,
All science to me is a stupid blunder.
Let us in sensuality's deep
Quench the passions within us blazing!
And, the veil of sorcery raising,
Wake each miracle from its long sleep!
Plunge we into the billowy dance,
The rush and roll of time and chance!
Then may pleasure and distress,
Disappointment and success,
Follow each other as fast as they will;
Man's restless activity flourishes still.
_Mephistopheles_. No bound or goal is set to you;
Where'er you like to wander sipping,
And catch a tit-bit in your skipping,
Eschew all coyness, just fall to,
And may you find a good digestion!
_Faust_. Now, once for all, pleasure is not the question.
I'm sworn to passion's whirl, the agony of bliss,
The lover's hate, the sweets of bitterness.
