Mephistopheles

Why, surely, if a God first plagues Himself six days, Then, self-contented, Bravo! says, Must something clever be created. This time, thine eyes be satiate! I’ll yet detect thy sweetheart and ensnare her, And blest is he, who has the lucky fate, Some day, as bridegroom, home to bear her.

(FAUST gazes continually in the mirror. MEPHISTOPHELES, stretching himself out on the settle, and playing with the brush, continues to speak.)

So sit I, like the King upon his throne: I hold the sceptre, here,—and lack the crown alone.