FAUST. Poor devil! What can you offer to me? A mind like yours, how can it comprehend A human spirit’s high activity? But have you food that leaves one still unsatisfied, Quicksilver-gold that breaks up in One’s very hands? Can you provide 1680 A game that I can never win, Procure a girl whose roving eye Invites the next man even as I lie In her embrace? A meteoric fame That fades as quickly as it came? Show me the fruit that rots before it’s plucked And trees that change their foliage every day!
