No More Learning

One has, all day, his hands full, and more too;
To worm out from him what he'd have one do,
Or not do, puzzles e'en the very devil.

_Faust_. Now, that I like! That's just the tone!
Wants thanks for boring me till I'm half dead!

_Mephistopheles_. Poor son of earth, if left alone,
What sort of life wouldst thou have led?
How oft, by methods all my own,
I've chased the cobweb fancies from thy head!
And but for me, to parts unknown
Thou from this earth hadst long since fled.
What dost thou here through cave and crevice groping?
Why like a horned owl sit moping?
And why from dripping stone, damp moss, and rotten wood
Here, like a toad, suck in thy food?
Delicious pastime! Ah, I see,
Somewhat of Doctor sticks to thee.

_Faust_.
What new life-power it gives me, canst thou guess--
This conversation with the wilderness?
Ay, couldst thou dream how sweet the employment,
Thou wouldst be devil enough to grudge me my enjoyment.

_Mephistopheles_. Ay, joy from super-earthly fountains!
By night and day to lie upon the mountains,
To clasp in ecstasy both earth and heaven,
Swelled to a deity by fancy's leaven,
Pierce, like a nervous thrill, earth's very marrow,
Feel the whole six days' work for thee too narrow,
To enjoy, I know not what, in blest elation,
Then with thy lavish love o'erflow the whole creation.
Below thy sight the mortal cast,
And to the glorious vision give at last--
[_with a gesture_]
I must not say what termination!

_Faust_. Shame on thee!

_Mephistopheles_. This displeases thee; well, surely,
Thou hast a right to say "for shame" demurely.
One must not mention that to chaste ears--never,
Which chaste hearts cannot do without, however.
And, in one word, I grudge you not the pleasure
Of lying to yourself in moderate measure;
But 'twill not hold out long, I know;
Already thou art fast recoiling,
And soon, at this rate, wilt be boiling
With madness or despair and woe.
Enough of this! Thy sweetheart sits there lonely,
And all to her is close and drear.
Her thoughts are on thy image only,
She holds thee, past all utterance, dear.
At first thy passion came bounding and rushing
Like a brooklet o'erflowing with melted snow and rain;
Into her heart thou hast poured it gushing:
And now thy brooklet's dry again.