I envy e'en the body of the Lord,
Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it.
Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
Viper!
Viper!
_Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. Ay! and the prey grows riper!
_Faust_. Reprobate! take thee far behind me!
No more that lovely woman name!
Bid not desire for her sweet person flame
Through each half-maddened sense, again to blind me!
_Mephistopheles_. What then's to do? She fancies thou hast flown,
And more than half she's right, I own.
_Faust_. I'm near her, and, though far away, my word,
I'd not forget her, lose her; never fear it!
I envy e'en the body of the Lord,
Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it.
_Mephistopheles_. No doubt; and oft my envious thought reposes
On the twin-pair that feed among the roses.
_Faust_. Out, pimp!
_Mephistopheles_. Well done! Your jeers I find fair game for laughter.
The God, who made both lad and lass,
Unwilling for a bungling hand to pass,
Made opportunity right after.
But come! fine cause for lamentation!
Her chamber is your destination,
And not the grave, I guess.
_Faust_. What are the joys of heaven while her fond arms enfold me?
O let her kindling bosom hold me!
Feel I not always her distress?
_Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. Ay! and the prey grows riper!
_Faust_. Reprobate! take thee far behind me!
No more that lovely woman name!
Bid not desire for her sweet person flame
Through each half-maddened sense, again to blind me!
_Mephistopheles_. What then's to do? She fancies thou hast flown,
And more than half she's right, I own.
_Faust_. I'm near her, and, though far away, my word,
I'd not forget her, lose her; never fear it!
I envy e'en the body of the Lord,
Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it.
_Mephistopheles_. No doubt; and oft my envious thought reposes
On the twin-pair that feed among the roses.
_Faust_. Out, pimp!
_Mephistopheles_. Well done! Your jeers I find fair game for laughter.
The God, who made both lad and lass,
Unwilling for a bungling hand to pass,
Made opportunity right after.
But come! fine cause for lamentation!
Her chamber is your destination,
And not the grave, I guess.
_Faust_. What are the joys of heaven while her fond arms enfold me?
O let her kindling bosom hold me!
Feel I not always her distress?
