Mephistopheles monologue (Act 7) — Faust: A Tragedy

And even thus, my progress is but small. This something, the big lumpish world, which stands Opposed to nothing, still ties my hands, And spite of all the ground that I seem winning, Remains as firm as in the beginning; With storms and tempests, earthquakes and burnings, Earth still enjoys its evenings and mornings, And the accursèd fry of brute and human clay, On them my noblest skill seems worse than thrown away. How many thousands have I not buried! Yet still a new fresh blood is hurried Through fresh young veins, that I must sheer despair. The earth, the water, and the air, The moist, the dry, the hot, the cold, A thousand germs of life unfold; And had I not of flame made reservation, I had no portion left in the creation.