Mephistopheles

To me this branch of science is well known, And hence I cannot your repugnance blame. Customs and laws in every place, Like a disease, an heir-loom dread, Still trail their curse from race to race, And furtively abroad they spread. To nonsense, reason's self they turn; Beneficence becomes a pest; Woe unto thee, that thou'rt a grandson born! As for the law born with us, unexpressed;-- That law, alas, none careth to discern.