Mephistopheles

I'm like a tom-cat in a thievish vein, That up fire-ladders tall and steep, And round the walls doth slyly creep; Virtuous withal, I feel, with, I confess, A touch of thievish joy and wantonness. Thus through my limbs already burns The glorious Walpurgis night! After to-morrow it returns, Then why one wakes, one knows aright!