Faust

What, sorry Devil, hast thou to bestow? Was ever mortal spirit, in its high endeavour, Fathom'd by Being such as thou? Yet food thou hast which satisfieth never, Hast ruddy gold, that still doth flow Like restless quicksilver away, A game thou hast, at which none win who play, A girl who would, with amorous eyen, E'en from my breast, a neighbour snare, Lofty ambition's joy divine, That, meteor-like, dissolves in air. Show me the fruit that, ere 'tis pluck'd, doth rot, And trees, whose verdure daily buds anew!