English poem
Mephistopheles
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)
He now will seat him in the nearest puddle; The solace this, whereof he’s most assured: And when upon his rump the leeches hang and fuddle, He’ll be of spirits and of Spirit cured.
(To FAUST, who has left the dance:)
Wherefore forsakest thou the lovely maiden, That in the dance so sweetly sang?