Margaret. Thou break'st my chain,
And tak'st me to thy breast again!
How comes it, then, that thou art not afraid of me?
And dost thou know, my friend, who 'tis thou settest free?
Faust. Come! come! The night is on the wane.
Margaret. Woe! woe! My mother I've slain!
Have drowned the babe of mine!
Was it not sent to be mine and thine?
Thine, too—'tis thou! Scarce true doth it seem.
Give me thy hand! 'Tis not a dream!
Thy blessed hand!—But ah! there's dampness here!
Go, wipe it off! I fear
There's blood thereon.
Ah God! what hast thou done!
Put up thy sword again;
I pray thee, do!
Faust. The past is past—there leave it then, Thou kill'st me too!
Margaret. No, thou must longer tarry!
I'll tell thee how each thou shalt bury;
The places of sorrow
Make ready to-morrow;
Must give the best place to my mother,
The very next to my brother,
Me a little aside,
But make not the space too wide!
And on my right breast let the little one lie.
No one else will be sleeping by me.
Once, to feel thy heart beat nigh me,
Oh, 'twas a precious, a tender joy!
But I shall have it no more—no, never;
I seem to be forcing myself on thee ever,
And thou repelling me freezingly;
And 'tis thou, the same good soul, I see.
Faust. If thou feelest 'tis I, then come with me
Margaret. Out yonder?
Faust. Into the open air.
Margaret. If the grave is there, If death is lurking; then come! From here to the endless resting-place, And not another pace—Thou go'st e'en now? O, Henry, might I too.
Faust. Thou canst! 'Tis but to will! The door stands open.