Sprang from her mouth.

MEPHISTOPHELES.

That was all right, my friend

Be it enough that the mouse was not gray
Do not disturb your hour of happiness
With close consideration of such trifles.

FAUST.

Then saw I—

MEPHISTOPHELES.

What?

FAUST.

Seest thou not a pale,

Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away?
She drags herself now forward with slow steps,
And seems as if she moved with shackled feet;
I cannot overcome the thought that she
Is like poor Margaret.

MEPHISTOPHELES.

Let it be-pass on

No good can come of it-it is not well
To meet it-it is an enchanted phantom,
A lifeless idol; with its numbing look,

It freezes up the blood of man; and they
Who meet its ghastly stare are turned to stone,
Like those who saw Medusa.

FAUST.

Her eyes are like the eyes

O, too true!

of a fresh corpse

Which no beloved hand has closed. Alas!

That is the breast which Margaret yielded to me-Those are the lovely limbs which I enjoyed!

MEPHISTOPHELES.

It is all magic, poor deluded fool!
She looks to every one like his first love.

FAUST.

O what delight! what woe! I cannot turn
My looks from her sweet piteous countenance.
How strangely does a single blood-red line,
Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife,
Adorn her lovely neck!

MEPHISTOPHELES.

Ay, she can carry

Her head under her arm upon occasion,

Perseus has cut it off for her. These pleasures

End in delusion.-Gain this rising ground,

It is as airy here as in a [

And if I am not mightily deceived,

I see a theatre.-What may this mean?

ATTENDANT.

Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for 'tis
The custom now to represent that number.

'Tis written by a dilettante, and

The actors who perform are dilettanti. Excuse me, gentlemen; but I must vanish: I am a dilettante curtain-lifter.

THE END.