[_He puts them on_.]
Now for my wit--rely upon it!
'Twill take but fifteen minutes, I am sure.
Meanwhile prepare thyself to make the pleasant tour!

[_Exit_ FAUST.]

_Mephistopheles [in_ FAUST'S _long gown_].
Only despise all human wit and lore,
The highest flights that thought can soar--
Let but the lying spirit blind thee,
And with his spells of witchcraft bind thee,
Into my snare the victim creeps.--
To him has destiny a spirit given,
That unrestrainedly still onward sweeps,
To scale the skies long since hath striven,
And all earth's pleasures overleaps.
He shall through life's wild scenes be driven,
And through its flat unmeaningness,
I'll make him writhe and stare and stiffen,
And midst all sensual excess,
His fevered lips, with thirst all parched and riven,
Insatiably shall haunt refreshment's brink;
And had he not, himself, his soul to Satan given,
Still must he to perdition sink!

[_Enter_ A SCHOLAR.]

_Scholar_. I have but lately left my home,
And with profound submission come,