Faust. Shame on thee!
Mephistopheles. This displeases thee; well, surely,
Thou hast a right to say "for shame" demurely.
One must not mention that to chaste ears—never,
Which chaste hearts cannot do without, however.
And, in one word, I grudge you not the pleasure
Of lying to yourself in moderate measure;
But 'twill not hold out long, I know;
Already thou art fast recoiling,
And soon, at this rate, wilt be boiling
With madness or despair and woe.
Enough of this! Thy sweetheart sits there lonely,
And all to her is close and drear.
Her thoughts are on thy image only,
She holds thee, past all utterance, dear.
At first thy passion came bounding and rushing
Like a brooklet o'erflowing with melted snow and rain;
Into her heart thou hast poured it gushing:
And now thy brooklet's dry again.
Methinks, thy woodland throne resigning,
'Twould better suit so great a lord
The poor young monkey to reward
For all the love with which she's pining.
She finds the time dismally long;
Stands at the window, sees the clouds on high
Over the old town-wall go by.
"Were I a little bird!"[26] so runneth her song
All the day, half the night long.
At times she'll be laughing, seldom smile,
At times wept-out she'll seem,
Then again tranquil, you'd deem,—
Lovesick all the while.
Faust. Viper! Viper!
Mephistopheles [aside]. Ay! and the prey grows riper!
Faust. Reprobate! take thee far behind me!
No more that lovely woman name!
Bid not desire for her sweet person flame
Through each half-maddened sense, again to blind me!
Mephistopheles. What then's to do? She fancies thou hast flown, And more than half she's right, I own.
Faust. I'm near her, and, though far away, my word,
I'd not forget her, lose her; never fear it!
I envy e'en the body of the Lord,
Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it.
Mephistopheles. No doubt; and oft my envious thought reposes On the twin-pair that feed among the roses.
Faust. Out, pimp!
Mephistopheles. Well done! Your jeers I find fair game for laughter.
The God, who made both lad and lass,
Unwilling for a bungling hand to pass,
Made opportunity right after.
But come! fine cause for lamentation!
Her chamber is your destination,
And not the grave, I guess.