The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries - BestLightNovel.com
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What's that to you?
MEPHISTOPHELES
I've my amus.e.m.e.nt in it too!
AT THE WELL
MARGARET _and_ BESSY, _with pitchers_
BESSY
Of Barbara hast nothing heard?
MARGARET
I rarely go from home--no, not a word.
BESSY
'Tis true: Sybilla told me so today!
That comes of being proud, methinks; She played the fool at last.
MARGARET
How so?
BESSY
They say That two she feedeth when she eats and drinks.
MARGARET
Alas!
BESSY
She's rightly served, in sooth.
How long she hung upon the youth!
What promenades, what jaunts there were To dancing booth and village fair!
The first she everywhere must s.h.i.+ne, He always treating her to pastry and to wine.
Of her good looks she was so vain, So shameless too, that to retain His presents, she did not disdain; Sweet words and kisses came anon-- And then the virgin flower was gone.
MARGARET
Poor thing!
BESSY
Forsooth dost pity her?
At night, when at our wheels we sat, Abroad our mothers ne'er would let us stir.
Then with her lover she must chat, Or on the bench, or in the dusky walk, Thinking the hours too brief for their sweet talk; Her proud head she will have to bow, And in white sheet do penance now!
MARGARET
But he will surely marry her?
BESSY
Not he!
He won't be such a fool! a gallant lad Like him can roam o'er land and sea; Besides, he's off.
MARGARET
That is not fair!
BESSY
If she should get him, 'twere almost as bad!
Her myrtle wreath the boys would tear; And then we girls would plague her too, For we chopp'd straw before her door would strew!
[_Exit._]
MARGARET (_walking toward home_)
How stoutly once I could inveigh, If a poor maiden went astray; Not words enough my tongue could find, 'Gainst others' sin to speak my mind!
Black as it seemed, I blacken'd it still more, And strove to make it blacker than before.
And did myself securely bless-- Now my own trespa.s.s doth appear!
Yet ah!--what urg'd me to transgress, G.o.d knows, it was so sweet, so dear!
ZWINGER
_Inclosure between the City-wall and the Gate. (In the niche of the wall a devotional image of the Mater dolorosa, with flower-pots before it.)_
MARGARET (_putting fresh flowers in the pots_)
Ah, rich in sorrow, thou, Stoop thy maternal brow, And mark with pitying eye my misery!
The sword in thy pierced heart, Thou dost with bitter smart Gaze upwards on thy Son's death agony.
To the dear G.o.d on high Ascends thy piteous sigh, Pleading for his and thy sore misery.
Ah, who can know The torturing woe, The pangs that rack me to the bone?
How my poor heart, without relief, Trembles and throbs, its yearning grief Thou knowest, thou alone!
Ah, wheresoe'er I go, With woe, with woe, with woe, My anguish'd breast is aching!
When all alone I creep, I weep, I weep, I weep, Alas! my heart is breaking!
The flower-pots at my window Were wet with tears of mine, The while I pluck'd these blossoms At dawn to deck thy shrine!
