Bid him teach thee the art of combining
Greatness of soul with fly designing,
And how, with warm and youthful passion,
To fall in love by plan and fashion.
Should like, myself, to come across 'm,
Would name him Mr. Microcosm.

_Faust_. What am I then? if that for which my heart
Yearns with invincible endeavor,
The crown of man, must hang unreached forever?

_Mephistopheles_. Thou art at last--just what thou art.
Pile perukes on thy head whose curls cannot be counted,
On yard-high buskins let thy feet be mounted,
Still thou art only what thou art.

_Faust_. Yes, I have vainly, let me not deny it,
Of human learning ransacked all the stores,
And when, at last, I set me down in quiet,
There gushes up within no new-born force;
I am not by a hair's-breadth higher,
Am to the Infinite no nigher.

_Mephistopheles_. My worthy sir, you see the matter
As people generally see;
But we must learn to take things better,
Before life pleasures wholly flee.
The deuce! thy head and all that's in it,
Hands, feet and ------ are thine;
What I enjoy with zest each minute,