unmaidenly, in my behaviour? It seemed as if the thought suddenly struck him, " I need stand on no ceremony with this girl." I must own I knew not what began to stir in your favour here; but certainly I was right angry with myself for not being more angry with you. Sweet love! FAUST. MARGARET. Wait a moment! (She plucks a star-flower, and picks off the leaves one after the other.) (She plucks off the leaves and murmurs to herself.) MARGARET continues. Loves me-not-loves me-not (Plucking off the last leaf with fond delight.) He loves me! FAUST. Yes, my child. Let this flower-prophecy be to thee as a judgment from heaven. He loves thee! dost thou understand what that means? He loves thee! (He takes both her hands.) MARGARET. I tremble all over! FAUST. Oh, tremble not. Let this look, let this pressure of the hand, say to thee what is unutterable:-to give ourselves up wholly, and feel a bliss which must be eternal! Eternal!-it's end would be despair! No, no end! no end! (MARGARET presses his hands, extricates herself He stands a from his embrace, and runs away. moment in thought, and then follows her.) MARTHA, approaching. The night is coming on. MEPHISTOPHeles. Aye, and we will away. MARTHA. I would ask you to stay here longer, but it is a wicked place. One would suppose no one had any other object or occupation than to gape after their neighbour's incomings and outgoings. And one comes to be talked about, appear as one will. And our little couple?— MEPHISTOPHeles. Have flown up the walk yonder. Wanton butterflies! MARTHA. He seems fond of her. MEPHISTOPHeles. And she of him. That is the way of the world. A SUMMER HOUSE. (MARGARET runs in, gets behind the door, holds the tip of her finger to her lips, and peeps through the crevices.) MARGARET. He comes! FAUST enters. Ah, rogue, is it thus you provoke me. I have caught you at last. MARGARET. (He kisses her.) (embracing him and returning the kiss.) Dearest man, I love thee from my heart! (MEPHISTOPHELES knocks.) FAUST, stamping. Who is there? MEPHISTOPHeles. A friend. FAUST. A brute. MEPHISTOPHeles. It is time to part, I believe. MARTHA comes up. Yes, it is late, Sir. FAUST. May I not accompany you? MARGARET. My mother would-farewell. FAUST. Must I then go? Farewell. MARTHA. Adieu! MARGARET. Till our next speedy meeting! (FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES exeunt.) MARGARET. Gracious God! How many things such a man can think about! How abashed I stand in his presence, and say yea to every thing! I am but a poor silly child, I cannot conceive what he sees in me. |