Mephistopheles. True, Lord; I find things there no better than before; I must confess I do deplore Man’s hopeless case, and scarce have heart myself To torture the poor miserable elf. The Lord. The Lord. Dost thou know Faust? Mephistopheles. Mephistopheles. The Doctor? The Lord. The Lord. Ay: my servant. Mephistopheles. Mephistopheles. Indeed! and of his master’s will observant, In fashion quite peculiar to himself; His food and drink are of no earthly taste, A restless fever drives him to the waste.
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