Faust. Ah! what were Heaven's supremest blessedness Within her arms, upon her breast, to me! Must I not still be wrung with agony, That I should plunge her into such distress? I, the poor fugitive! outlaw from my kind, Without a friend, without a home, With restless heart, and aimless mind, Unblest, unblessing, ever doomed to roam; Who, like a waterfall, from rock to rock came roaring, With greedy rage into the caldron pouring; While she, a heedless infant, rears Sidewards her hut upon the Alpine field, With all her hopes, and all her fears, Within this little world concealed. And I--the God-detested--not content To seize the rocks, and in my headlong bent To shatter them to dust, with ruthless tide Her little shielding on the mountain side Bore down, and wrecked her life's sweet peace with mine. And such an offering, Hell, must it be thine? Help, Devil, to cut short the hour of ill! What happen must, may happen when it will! May her sad fate my crashing fall attend, And she with me be ruined in the end! Mephistopheles. Lo! how it boils again and blows Like furnace, wherefore no man knows. Go in, thou fool, and let her borrow From thee, sweet solace to her sorrow! When such a brainsick dreamer sees No road, where he to walk may please, He stands and stares like Balaam's ass, As if a god did block the pass. A man's a man who does and dares! In other points you're spiced not scantly with the devil; Nothing more silly moves on earth's wide level, Than is a devil who despairs. Scene IV. /Margaret's/ _Room._ /Margaret/ _alone, at a Spinning-wheel._ Margaret. My rest is gone, My heart is sore; Peace find I never, And nevermore. Where he is not Life is the tomb, The world is bitterness And gloom. Crazed is my poor Distracted brain, My thread of thought Is rent in twain. My rest is gone, My heart is sore; Peace find I never, And never more. I look from the window For none but him, I go abroad For only him. His noble air, His bearing high, The smile of his mouth, The might of his eye, And, when he speaks, What flow of bliss! The clasp of his hand, And ah! his kiss! My rest is gone, My heart is sore; Peace find I never, And nevermore. My bosom swells, And pants for him, O that I might clasp him, And cling to him! And kiss him, and kiss him The live-long day, And on his kisses Melt away! Scene V. /Martha's/ _Garden._ /Margaret/ _and_ /Faust/. Margaret. Promise me, Henry! Faust. What I can. Margaret. Of your religion I am fain to hear; I know thou art a most kind-hearted man, But as to thy belief I fear--