One glance, one word from thee doth charm me more,
Than the world's wisdom or the sage's lore.
(He kisses her hand.)
MARGARET
Nay! trouble not yourself! A hand so coarse,
So rude as mine, how can you kiss!
What constant work at home must I not do perforce!
My mother too exacting is.
(They pass on.)
MARTHA
Thus, sir, unceasing travel is your lot?
MEPHISTOPHELES
Traffic and duty urge us! With what pain
Are we compelled to leave full many a spot,
Where yet we dare not once remain!
MARTHA
In youth's wild years, with vigour crown'd,
'Tis not amiss thus through the world to sweep;
But ah, the evil days come round!
And to a lonely grave as bachelor to creep,
A pleasant thing has no one found.