I feel it well, ’tis from pure condescension
You pay to one like me so much attention.
With travellers ’tis a thing of course,
To be contented with the best they find;
For sure a man of cultivated mind
Can have small pleasure in my poor discourse.
Faust.
One look from thee, one word, delights me more
Than all the world’s high-vaunted lore.
[He kisses her hand.
Margaret.
O trouble not yourself! how could you kiss it so?
It is so coarse, so rough! for I must go
Through all the work above stairs and below,
Mother will have it so.
[They pass on.
Martha.
And you, sir, will it still
Be your delight from place to place to roam?
Mephistopheles.
In this our duty guides us, not our will.
With what sad hearts from many a place we go,
Where we had almost learned to be at home!
Martha.
When one is young it seems a harmless gambol,
Thus round and round through the wide world to ramble:
But soon the evil day comes on,
And as a stiff old bachelor to die
Has never yet done good to any one.
Mephistopheles.
I see ahead, and fear such wretched fate.
Martha.
Then, sir, take warning ere it be too late!
[They pass on.
Margaret.
Yes, out of sight, and out of mind!
You see me now, and are so kind:
But you have friends at home of station high,
With far more wit and far more sense than I.
Faust.
Their sense, dear girl, is often nothing more
Than vain conceit of vain short-sighted lore.
Margaret.
How mean you that?
Faust.
Oh that the innocent heart
And sweet simplicity, unspoiled by art,
So seldom knows its own rare quality!
That fair humility, the comeliest grace
Which bounteous Nature sheds on blooming face—
