Mephistopheles

My little ones these spirits be. Hark! with shrewd intelligence, How they recommend to thee Action, and the joys of sense! In the busy world to dwell, Fain they would allure thee hence: For within this lonely cell, Stagnate sap of life and sense.

Forbear to trifle longer with thy grief, Which, vulture-like, consumes thee in this den. The worst society is some relief, Making thee feel thyself a man with men. Nathless, it is not meant, I trow, To thrust thee 'mid the vulgar throng.

I to the upper ranks do not belong; Yet if, by me companion'd, thou Thy steps through life forthwith wilt take; Upon the spot myself I'll make Thy comrade;-- Should it suit thy need, I am thy servant, am thy slave indeed!