Mephistopheles

The six days' labour of a god, my friend, Who doth himself cry bravo, at the end, By something clever doubtless should be crown'd. For this time gaze your fill, and when you please Just such a prize for you I can provide; How blest is he to whom kind fate decrees, To take her to his home, a lovely bride!

(FAUST continues to gaze into the mirror. MEPHISTOPHELES stretching himself on the settle and playing with the whisk, continues to speak.)

Here sit I, like a king upon his throne; My sceptre this;--the crown I want alone.