Driven behind the stove by my spells,
Like an elephant he swells;
He fills the whole room, so huge he's grown,
He waxes shadowy faster and faster.
Rise not up to the ceiling--down!
Lay thyself at the feet of thy master!
Thou seest, there's reason to dread my ire.
I'll scorch thee with the holy fire!
Wait not for the sight
Of the thrice-glowing light!
Wait not to feel the might
Of the potentest spell in all my treasure!


MEPHISTOPHELES.
[_As the mist sinks, steps forth from behind the stove,
dressed as a travelling scholasticus_.]
Why all this noise? What is your worship's pleasure?

_Faust_. This was the poodle's essence then!
A travelling clark? Ha! ha! The casus is too funny.

_Mephistopheles_. I bow to the most learned among men!
'Faith you did sweat me without ceremony.

_Faust_. What is thy name?

_Mephistopheles_. The question seems too small
For one who holds the _word_ so very cheaply,