By all the
infernal
fires!
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
How would this chain become my neck!
Whose may this splendor be, so lonely?
[_She arrays herself in it, and steps before the glass_. ]
Could I but claim the ear-rings only!
A different figure one would make.
What's beauty worth to thee, young blood!
May all be very well and good;
What then? 'Tis half for pity's sake
They praise your pretty features.
Each burns for gold,
All turns on gold,--
Alas for us! poor creatures!
PROMENADE.
FAUST [_going up and down in thought_. ] MEPHISTOPHELES _to him_.
_Mephistopheles_. By all that ever was jilted!
By all the infernal fires!
I wish I knew something worse, to curse as my heart desires!
_Faust_. What griping pain has hold of thee?
Such grins ne'er saw I in the worst stage-ranter!
_Mephistopheles_. Oh, to the devil I'd give myself instanter,
If I were not already he!
_Faust_. Some pin's loose in your head, old fellow!
That fits you, like a madman thus to bellow!
_Mephistopheles_. Just think, the pretty toy we got for Peg,
A priest has hooked, the cursed plague I--
The thing came under the eye of the mother,
And caused her a dreadful internal pother:
The woman's scent is fine and strong;
Snuffles over her prayer-book all day long,
And knows, by the smell of an article, plain,
Whether the thing is holy or profane;
And as to the box she was soon aware
There could not be much blessing there.
"My child," she cried, "unrighteous gains
Ensnare the soul, dry up the veins.
We'll consecrate it to God's mother,
She'll give us some heavenly manna or other! "
Little Margaret made a wry face; "I see
'Tis, after all, a gift horse," said she;
"And sure, no godless one is he
Who brought it here so handsomely. "
The mother sent for a priest (they're cunning);
Who scarce had found what game was running,
When he rolled his greedy eyes like a lizard,
And, "all is rightly disposed," said he,
"Who conquers wins, for a certainty.
