MEPHISTOPHELES. Here is a casket, it weighs heavily. But child is child, and play is play. I know not; shall I? FAUST. MEPHISTOPHEles. Dost delay? Perchance you mean yourself to keep the prize. I trust you are not miserly. I rub my hands, and scratch my head [He puts the casket in the press, and shuts it again. Away-the bolt is sped. Now, the youthful lovely girl, Το your heart's desire to twist and twirl. Yet from your air It seems as in the lecture room you were, Before you standing, bodily and grey, Away! MARGARET, with a lamp. It feels so close, so musty here, [She opens the window. Yet outside does not warm appear. Would that my mother were at home. O'er all my limbs it seemed a shudder played. She begins to sing whilst she is undressing herself. Right true unto the grave, To him his sweetheart, dying, A golden goblet gave. Nought prized he more; at every feast He drained it evermore, And every time he drunk from it, With tears his eyes ran o'er. On his death-bed, his cities He sat at the regal banquet, There stood the ancient toper, Then his last draught quaffed he ; No drop more e'er he drank. [She opens the press to put away her clothes and perceives the casket. How comes this pretty casket here to be? I locked the press most certainly. "Tis wonderful; what can there be within? "Twere no great harm, methinks, to open it. I ne'er have seen such things in all my life. Upon the highest holiday might go. I wonder how on me the chain would show. Whose all these fine things are I fain would know. [She puts them on and walks to the glass. If but the earrings only were mine own. One looks a different creature with them on. And then the world leaves all alone. Half pity doth its praise express. For gold contend, On gold depend Still all. Alas, we moneyless! PROMENADE. FAUST in a reverie, walking up and down. MEPHISTOPHELES. By the pangs of despised love-by each damnable element, I would I knew something worse, I might curse to my heart's content. FAUST. What now? What is it pinches thee so sore ? MEPHISTOPHELES. I could bestow myself upon the spot On the Devil, if I myself a devil were not. FAUST. Hath aught occurred to thee, to shake thy brain? It becomes thee to rave like one insane. |