Not every maiden keeps her room so neat. [Exit.

Faust. [looking round]

Be greeted, thou sweet twilight-shine!

Through this chaste sanctuary shed!

Oh seize my heart, sweet pains of love divine,

That on the languid dew of hope are fed!

What sacred stillness holds the air!

What order, what contentment rare!

[He throws himself on the old leathern armchair beside the bed.]

Receive thou me! thou, who, in ages gone,