In all thy life, no man, nor man's word hast thou known?
Is't not enough that I the fatal word
That passes on my future days have spoken?
The world-stream raves and rushes (hast not heard?)
And shall a promise hold, unbroken?
Yet this delusion haunts the human breast,
Who from his soul its roots would sever?
Thrice happy in whose heart pure truth finds rest.
No sacrifice shall he repent of ever!
But from a formal, written, sealed attest,
As from a spectre, all men shrink forever.
The word and spirit die together,
Killed by the sight of wax and leather.
What wilt thou, evil sprite, from me?
Brass, marble, parchment, paper, shall it be?
Shall I subscribe with pencil, pen or graver?
Among them all thy choice is free.

_Mephistopheles_. This rhetoric of thine to me
Hath a somewhat bombastic savor.
Any small scrap of paper's good.
Thy signature will need a single drop of blood.[17]

_Faust_. If this will satisfy thy mood,
I will consent thy whim to favor.

_Mephistopheles._ Quite a peculiar juice is blood.

_Faust_. Fear not that I shall break this bond; O, never!
My promise, rightly understood,