_Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. Ay! and the prey grows riper!
_Faust_. Reprobate! take thee far behind me! No more that lovely woman name! Bid not desire for her sweet person flame Through each half-maddened sense, again to blind me!
_Mephistopheles_. What then's to do? She fancies thou hast flown, And more than half she's right, I own.
_Faust_. I'm near her, and, though far away, my word, I'd not forget her, lose her; never fear it! I envy e'en the body of the Lord, Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it.
_Mephistopheles_. No doubt; and oft my envious thought reposes On the twin-pair that feed among the roses.
_Mephistopheles_. Well done! Your jeers I find fair game for laughter. The God, who made both lad and lass, Unwilling for a bungling hand to pass, Made opportunity right after. But come! fine cause for lamentation! Her chamber is your destination, And not the grave, I guess.
_Faust_. What are the joys of heaven while her fond arms enfold me? O let her kindling bosom hold me! Feel I not always her distress? The houseless am I not? the unbefriended? The monster without aim or rest? That, like a cataract, from rock to rock descended To the abyss, with maddening greed possest: She, on its brink, with childlike thoughts and lowly,-- Perched on the little Alpine field her cot,-- This narrow world, so still and holy Ensphering, like a heaven, her lot. And I, God's hatred daring, Could not be content The rocks all headlong bearing, By me to ruins rent,-- Her, yea her peace, must I o'erwhelm and bury! This victim, hell, to thee was necessary! Help me, thou fiend, the pang soon ending! What must be, let it quickly be! And let her fate upon my head descending, Crush, at one blow, both her and me.
_Mephistopheles_. Ha! how it seethes again and glows! Go in and comfort her, thou dunce! Where such a dolt no outlet sees or knows, He thinks he's reached the end at once. None but the brave deserve the fair! Thou _hast_ had devil enough to make a decent show of. For all the world a devil in despair Is just the insipidest thing I know of.
MARGERY [_at the spinning-wheel alone_]. My heart is heavy, My peace is o'er; I never--ah! never-- Shall find it more. While him I crave, Each place is the grave, The world is all Turned into gall. My wretched brain Has lost its wits, My wretched sense Is all in bits. My heart is heavy, My peace is o'er; I never--ah! never-- Shall find it more. Him only to greet, I The street look down, Him only to meet, I Roam through town. His lofty step, His noble height, His smile of sweetness, His eye of might, His words of magic, Breathing bliss, His hand's warm pressure And ah! his kiss. My heart is heavy, My peace is o'er, I never--ah! never-- Shall find it more. My bosom yearns To behold him again. Ah, could I find him That best of men! I'd tell him then How I did miss him, And kiss him As much as I could, Die on his kisses I surely should!