And save me from myself. Thy love is dead.
So let it rest—’tis fit that it should die.
I would not raise it from its solemn grave
For all the joy that it would bring to me.
I pray thy pity, Gretchen, not thy love.
Gret. Kneel thou to Heaven, and not to such as I;
So shall thy pardon come from that great Source
From which alone can pardon profit thee.
My time is brief—I have to make my peace!
[Exit.