I care not for your masquerade attire;
But let that pass.... Well, I have kept your hour.
And this perhaps is not unfitting place
To make confession that you weary me
A little. In this running to and fro
Over the earth, my inclination tires
Of your companionship. I am resolved,
If three days' time brings forth no new event,
To end this, and reclaim you to obey
My will.
SATAN
I am content; three days will serve.
FAUST
Good! Meanwhile, 'tis at least some recompense
That we return from airy Eastern domes
Glittering in blank sunlight, unto lands
Where men erect their temples to the gods
In forms whose light and shadow, stress and play
Of arch and buttress, satisfies my blood
Better than does barbaric loveliness.
The dome that poises its clear perfect curves
Rising above the palm-trees, with the look
As of a wingèd bubble lightly resting
On needless masonry—that symbolled form
Of heavenly perfection never fills
My heart as do these knotted buttresses
And writhing ribs and vaults that strain in fight—
And are victorious, as they raise to heaven
The climbing spires of such an edifice.
SATAN
Quite right—but if you'll let me interrupt—
There is a woman yonder who, I think,
Is waiting for a chance to speak to you.
She looks at you, and hesitates, and turns—
As though a little fearful to approach
So great a person.
FAUST
Where is she? I see.
I wonder if I know her.
SATAN