Mephistopheles. Well and fair!
Then there'll be talk of truth unending,
Of love o'ermastering, all transcending—
Will every word be heart-born there?
Faust. Enough! It will!—If, for the passion
That fills and thrills my being's frame,
I find no name, no fit expression,
Then, through the world, with all my senses, ranging,
Seek what most strongly speaks the unchanging.
And call this glow, within me burning,
Infinite—endless—endless yearning,
Is that a devilish lying game?
Mephistopheles. I'm right, nathless!
Faust. Now, hark to me—
This once, I pray, and spare my lungs, old fellow—
Whoever will be right, and has a tongue to bellow,
Is sure to be.
But come, enough of swaggering, let's be quit,
For thou art right, because I must submit.
GARDEN.
MARGARET on FAUST'S arm. MARTHA with MEPHISTOPHELES.
[Promenading up and down.]
Margaret. The gentleman but makes me more confused
With all his condescending goodness.
Men who have travelled wide are used
To bear with much from dread of rudeness;
I know too well, a man of so much mind
In my poor talk can little pleasure find.
Faust. One look from thee, one word, delights me more Than this world's wisdom o'er and o'er. [Kisses her hand.]
Margaret. Don't take that trouble, sir! How could you bear to kiss it? A hand so ugly, coarse, and rough! How much I've had to do! must I confess it— Mother is more than close enough. [They pass on.]
Martha. And you, sir, are you always travelling so?