FAUST
Dear Gretchen, more collected be!
One little step, and thou art free!
MARGARET
Were we but only past the hill!
There sits my mother upon a stone—
My brain, alas, is cold with dread!—
There sits my mother upon a stone,
And to and fro she shakes her head;
She winks not, she nods not, her head it droops sore;
She slept so long, she waked no more;
She slept, that we might taste of bliss:
Ah! those were happy times, I wis!
FAUST
Since here avails nor argument nor prayer,
Thee hence by force I needs must bear.
MARGARET
Loose me! I will not suffer violence!
With murderous hand hold not so fast!
I have done all to please thee in the past!
FAUST
Day dawns! My love! My love!