This pressure of my hand declare
What words can never name:
To yield us to an ecstasy of joy,
And feel this tranceful bliss must be
Eternal! yes! its end would be despair!
It hath no end! no end for thee and me!
[Margaret presses his hands, makes herself free, and runs away. He stands still for a moment thoughtfully, then follows her.
Martha. [coming up]
’Tis getting late.
Mephistopheles.