And one can see it written on his face,
He never loved a son of Adam’s race.
Henry, within thy loving arm
I feel so free, so trustful-warm;
But when his foot comes near, I start,
And feel a freezing grip tie up my heart.
Faust.
O thou prophetic angel, thou!
Margaret.
This overpowers me so
That, when his icy foot may cross the door,
I feel as if I could not love thee more.
When he is here, too, I could never pray;
This eats my very heart. Now say,
Henry, is’t not the same with thee?
Faust.
Nay now, this is mere blind antipathy!
Margaret.
I must be gone.
Faust.
Oh! may it never be
That I shall spend one quiet hour with thee,
One single little hour, and breast on breast,
And soul on soul, with panting love, be pressed?
Margaret.
Alas! did I but sleep alone, this night
The door unbarred thy coming should invite;
But my good mother has but broken sleep;
And, if her ears an inkling got,
Then were I dead upon the spot!
Faust.
Sweet angel! that’s an easy fence to leap.
Here is a juice, whose grateful power can steep
Her senses in a slumber soft and deep;
Three drops mixed with her evening draught will do.
Margaret.
I would adventure this and more for you.
Of course, there’s nothing hurtful in the phial?
Faust.
If so, would I advise the trial?
