Faust [aloud].  Margery!  Margery!

Margaret [listening].  That was the voice of my lover!
               [She springs up.  The chains fall off.]

Where is he?  Where?  He calls.  I hear him. 
I’m free!  Who hinders?  I will be near him. 
I’ll fly to his neck!  I’ll hold him! 
To my bosom I’ll enfold him! 
He stood on the threshold—­called Margery plainly! 
Hell’s howling and clattering to drown it sought vainly,—­
Through the devilish, grim scoffs, that might turn one to stone,
I caught the sweet, loving, enrapturing tone.

Faust.  ’Tis I!

Margaret.  ’Tis thou!  O say it once again.
            [Clasping again.]
’Tis he! ’tis he!  Where now is all my pain? 
And where the dungeon’s anguish?  Joy-giver! 
’Tis thou!  And come to deliver! 
I am delivered! 
Again before me lies the street,
Where for the first time thou and I did meet. 
And the garden-bower,
Where we spent that evening hour.

Faust [trying to draw her away].  Come!  Come with me!

Margaret.  O tarry! 
I tarry so gladly where thou tarriest.
          [Caressing him.]

Faust.  Hurry! 
Unless thou hurriest,
Bitterly we both must rue it.

Margaret.  Kiss me!  Canst no more do it? 
So short an absence, love, as this,
And forgot how to kiss? 
What saddens me so as I hang about thy neck? 
When once, in thy words, thy looks, such a heaven of blisses
Came o’er me, I thought my heart would break,
And it seemed as if thou wouldst smother me with kisses. 
Kiss thou me! 
Else I kiss thee!
             [She embraces him.]
Woe! woe! thy lips are cold,
Stone-dumb. 
Where’s thy love left? 
Oh!  I’m bereft! 
Who robbed me?
            [She turns from him]

Faust.  O come! 
Take courage, my darling!  Let us go;
I clasp-thee with unutterable glow;
But follow me!  For this alone I plead!

Margaret [turning to him].  Is it, then, thou?  And is it thou indeed?

Faust.  ’Tis I!  Come, follow me!

Margaret.  Thou break’st my chain,
And tak’st me to thy breast again! 
How comes it, then, that thou art not afraid of me? 
And dost thou know, my friend, who ’tis thou settest free?

Faust.  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!