Make ends meet

too well. Woe to my garland! Its bloom is o'er! Though not at the dance We

shall meet once more. The crowd doth gather, in silence it rolls; The squares,

the streets, Scarce hold the throng. The staff is broken, - the death - bell tolls,

They bind and seize me! I'm hurried along, To the seat of blood already I'm

bound! Quivers each neck as the naked steel Quivers on mine the blow to

deal The silence of the grave now broods around!

Mephistopheles (appears without)

Up! or you're lost. Vain hesitation! Babbling, quaking! My steeds are