Meph. Shake off thy Churchman’s qualms. Thou art a man,
Wast once a soldier ere thou wast a priest.
Has monkish milk so curdled the hot blood
That bore thee ever where the fight was thickest,
That this raw girl—this butter-churning doll,
Hath turned thee chicken-hearted?
Faus.Hold thy peace,
Accursed fiend, nor dare to breathe her name.
Deal thou with me—let Heaven deal with heaven,
I go from her—God shield her from all harm!