Have you made any applications
elsewhere?
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
Come, give me, now, thy robe and bonnet;
This mask will suit me charmingly.
[_He puts them on_. ]
Now for my wit--rely upon it!
'Twill take but fifteen minutes, I am sure.
Meanwhile prepare thyself to make the pleasant tour!
[_Exit_ FAUST. ]
_Mephistopheles [in_ FAUST'S _long gown_].
Only despise all human wit and lore,
The highest flights that thought can soar--
Let but the lying spirit blind thee,
And with his spells of witchcraft bind thee,
Into my snare the victim creeps. --
To him has destiny a spirit given,
That unrestrainedly still onward sweeps,
To scale the skies long since hath striven,
And all earth's pleasures overleaps.
He shall through life's wild scenes be driven,
And through its flat unmeaningness,
I'll make him writhe and stare and stiffen,
And midst all sensual excess,
His fevered lips, with thirst all parched and riven,
Insatiably shall haunt refreshment's brink;
And had he not, himself, his soul to Satan given,
Still must he to perdition sink!
[_Enter_ A SCHOLAR. ]
_Scholar_. I have but lately left my home,
And with profound submission come,
To hold with one some conversation
Whom all men name with veneration.
_Mephistopheles. _ Your courtesy greatly flatters me
A man like many another you see.
Have you made any applications elsewhere?
_Scholar_. Let me, I pray, your teachings share!
With all good dispositions I come,
A fresh young blood and money some;
My mother would hardly hear of my going;
But I long to learn here something worth knowing.
_Mephistopheles_. You've come to the very place for it, then.
_Scholar_. Sincerely, could wish I were off again:
My soul already has grown quite weary
Of walls and halls, so dark and dreary,
The narrowness oppresses me.
One sees no green thing, not a tree.
On the lecture-seats, I know not what ails me,
Sight, hearing, thinking, every thing fails me.
_Mephistopheles_. 'Tis all in use, we daily see.
The child takes not the mother's breast
In the first instance willingly,
But soon it feeds itself with zest.
So you at wisdom's breast your pleasure
Will daily find in growing measure.
_Scholar_. I'll hang upon her neck, a raptured wooer,
But only tell me, who shall lead me to her?
