headaches.

SATAN

Ah,
How crude you think me!

FAUST

No, I think you human.
We all are that sometimes.

SATAN

You have not grasped
All that I meant. I know the calfish joys
Of the young freshman, suddenly let loose
With chorus-girls for nursemaids, are not yours.
I mean far subtler things: I mean the play
Of the wise soul that sees the abyss of life—
Sees the grim measure of the mortal doom—
And over that dark gulf in reckless mirth
Dances on rainbows, with delightful arms
And bosoms close to his. That is a mood
That always thrills me with a sense of large
And splendid courage. If I did not think
That it would bore you, I should like to make
My meaning clear by reading a few lines
That I once wrote when I myself was in
Your very mood— Or would you care to hear
My little poem?

FAUST

What! Is even the Devil
A poet nowadays?

SATAN

Indeed he is:
And not a bad one. Once I would have scorned
The poets; but we moderns so surpass
The ancients here that I am proud to write
Some verses now and then. For we have learned
That poetry, like all the other arts,
Is pure technique: the mere ideas are nothing,
The form is everything. That ennobles us
And makes us artists. And as artist, I
Am not contemptible, as you may see
From this slight sample. With your leave, I'll read.
(Satan produces an enormous scrap-book of magazine-clippings,
turns over the pages and at last begins to read)

A Watteau Melody