_An enclosed Area._ (_In a niche of the wall an image of the Mater dolorosa, with flower-jugs before it._) Margaret. [_placing fresh flowers in the jugs_] O mother rich in sorrows, Bend down to hear my cry! O bend thee, gracious mother, To my sore agony! Thy heart with swords is piercèd, And tears are in thine eye, Because they made thy dear Son A cruel death to die. Thou lookest up to heaven, And deeply thou dost sigh; His God and thine beholds thee, And heals thine agony. Oh! who can know What bitter woe Doth pierce me through and through? The fear, the anguish of my heart, Its every pang, its every smart, Know'st thou, and only thou. And wheresoe'er I wend me, What woes, what woes attend me, And how my bosom quakes! And in my chamber lonely, With weeping, weeping only, My heart for sorrow breaks. These flower-pots on the window I wet with tears, ah me! When with the early morning, I plucked these flowers for thee. And when the morn's first sunbeam Into my room was shed, I sat, in deepest anguish, And watched it on my bed. O save me, Mother of Sorrows! Unto my prayer give heed, By all the swords that pierced thee, O save me in my need! Scene VIII. _Night. Street before_ /Margaret's/ _door._ _Enter_ /Valentin/. Valentin. When I sat with our merry men, At a carousal, now and then, Where one may be allowed a boast, And my messmates gave toast for toast To the girl they prized the most, And with a bumper then swilled o'er Their praise, when they could praise no more; I'd sit at ease, and lean upon My elbow, while they prated on, Till all the swaggerers had done, And smile and stroke my beard, and fill The goodly rummer to my hand, And say, All that is very well! But is there one, in all the land, That with my Margaret may compare, Or even tie the shoe to her? Rap, rap! cling, clang! so went it round! From man to man, with gleesome sound, And one cried out with lusty breath, "Yes, Gretchen! Gretchen! she's the girl, Of womanhood the perfect pearl!" And all the braggarts were dumb as death. And now,--the devil's in the matter! It is enough to make one clatter, Like a rat, along the walls! Shall every boor, with gibe and jeer, Turn up his nose when I appear? And every pettiest word that falls Me, like a purseless debtor, torture? And though I bruised them in a mortar, I could not say that they were wrong. What comes apace?--what creeps along? A pair of them comes slinking by. If 'tis the man I look for, I Will dust his coat so well he'll not, By Jove! go living from the spot! [_Retires._ _Enter_ /Faust/ _and_ /Mephistopheles/.