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Ah, dearest man, if but thy face I see, I know not what compels me to thy will: So much have I already done for thee, That scarcely more is left me to fulfil.
(Enter MEPHISTOPHELES.) [Exit.
MEPHISTOPHELES
The monkey! Is she gone?
FAUST
Hast played the spy again?
MEPHISTOPHELES
I've heard, most fully, how she drew thee.
The Doctor has been catechised, 'tis plain; Great good, I hope, the thing will do thee.
The girls have much desire to ascertain If one is prim and good, as ancient rules compel: If there he's led, they think, he'll follow them as well.
FAUST
Thou, monster, wilt nor see nor own How this pure soul, of faith so lowly, So loving and ineffable,- The faith alone That her salvation is,-with scruples holy Pines, lest she hold as lost the man she loves so well!
MEPHISTOPHELES
Thou, full of sensual, super-sensual desire, A girl by the nose is leading thee.
FAUST
Abortion, thou, of filth and fire!
MEPHISTOPHELES
And then, how masterly she reads physiognomy!
When I am present she's impressed, she knows not how; She in my mask a hidden sense would read: She feels that surely I'm a genius now,- Perhaps the very Devil, indeed!
Well, well,-to-night-?
FAUST
What's that to thee?
MEPHISTOPHELES
Yet my delight 'twill also be!
XVII
AT THE FOUNTAIN
MARGARET and LISBETH With pitchers.
LISBETH
Hast nothing heard of Barbara?
MARGARET
No, not a word. I go so little out.
LISBETH
It's true, Sibylla said, to-day.
She's played the fool at last, there's not a doubt.
Such taking-on of airs!
MARGARET
How so?
LISBETH
It stinks!
She's feeding two, whene'er she eats and drinks.
MARGARET
Ah!
LISBETH
And so, at last, it serves her rightly.
She clung to the fellow so long and tightly!
That was a promenading!
At village and dance parading!
As the first they must everywhere shine, And he treated her always to pies and wine, And she made a to-do with her face so fine; So mean and shameless was her behavior, She took all the presents the fellow gave her.
'Twas kissing and coddling, on and on!
So now, at the end, the flower is gone.
MARGARET
The poor, poor thing!
LISBETH
Dost pity her, at that?
When one of us at spinning sat, And mother, nights, ne'er let us out the door She sported with her paramour.
On the door-bench, in the pa.s.sage dark, The length of the time they'd never mark.
So now her head no more she'll lift, But do church-penance in her sinner's shift!
