Mar. Whose life?
Sie. Need I name him? The wretch Who thus hast deserted thee!
Mar. In mercy, speak not thus!
Sie. Dost love him still, then?
Mar. Ay, I love him still! But not to you, good Siebel, should I repeat this tale.
Sie.
I. When all was young, and pleasant May was blooming, I, thy poor friend, took part with thee in play; Now that the cloud of autumn dark is glooming, Now is for me, too, mournful the day. Hope and delight have passed from life away.
II. We were not born with true love to trifle, Nor born to part because the wind blows cold. What though the storm the summer garden rifle, Oh, Marguerite! oh, Marguerite! Still on the bough is left a leaf of gold.
Mar. Bless you, my friend, your sympathy is sweet. The cruel ones who wrong me thus Cannot close against me The gates of the holy temple. Thither will I go to pray For him and for our child.
(Exit. Siebel follows slowly after.)