MARGARET
Live with the like of him may I never!
When once inside the door comes he,
He looks around so sneeringly,
And half in wrath:
One sees that in nothing no interest he hath:
'Tis written on his very forehead
That love, to him, is a thing abhorred.
I am so happy on thine arm,
So free, so yielding, and so warm,
And in his presence stifled seems my heart.
FAUST
Foreboding angel that thou art!
In the Dungeon
In a niche of the wall a shrine, with an image of the Mater Dolorosa. Pots of flowers before it
MARGARET
[Putting fresh flowers in the pots]
Incline, O Maiden,
Thou sorrow-laden,
Thy gracious countenance upon my pain!
The sword thy heart in,
With anguish smarting,
Thou lookest up to where thy Son is slain!
Thou seest the Father;
The sad sighs gather,
And bear aloft thy sorrow and his pain!