Himself half seems to understand

How his poor wits have run astrand;

From heaven he asks each loveliest star,

Earth’s chiefest joy must jump to his demand,

And all that’s near, and all that’s far,

Soothes not his deep-moved spirit’s war.

The Lord.

The Lord.

Though for a time he blindly grope his way,

Soon will I lead him into open day;

Well knows the gardener, when green shoots appear,

That bloom and fruit await the ripening year.

Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles.

What wager you? you yet shall lose that soul!

Only give me full license, and you’ll see

How I shall lead him softly to my goal.

The Lord.

The Lord.

As long as on the earth he lives

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