No More Learning

Come! come! The night is on the wane.

_Margaret_. Woe! woe! My mother I've slain!
Have drowned the babe of mine!
Was it not sent to be mine and thine?
Thine, too--'tis thou! Scarce true doth it seem.
Give me thy hand! 'Tis not a dream!
Thy blessed hand! --But ah!
there's dampness here!
Go, wipe it off! I fear
There's blood thereon.
Ah God! what hast thou done!
Put up thy sword again;
I pray thee, do!

_Faust_. The past is past--there leave it then,
Thou kill'st me too!

_Margaret_. No, thou must longer tarry!
I'll tell thee how each thou shalt bury;
The places of sorrow
Make ready to-morrow;
Must give the best place to my mother,
The very next to my brother,
Me a little aside,
But make not the space too wide!
And on my right breast let the little one lie.
No one else will be sleeping by me.
Once, to feel _thy_ heart beat nigh me,
Oh, 'twas a precious, a tender joy!
But I shall have it no more--no, never;
I seem to be forcing myself on thee ever,
And thou repelling me freezingly;
And 'tis thou, the same good soul, I see.

_Faust_.