Your husband’s dead—his last fond words I bear.
Martha.
Is dead! the good fond soul! O woe!
My man is dead! flow, sorrow, flow!
Margaret.
Beseech thee, dearest Martha, don’t despair.
Mephistopheles.
Now hear my mournful story to the end.
Margaret.
I would not love a man on earth, to rend
Me thus with grief, when he might hap to die.
Mephistopheles.
Joy hath its sorrow, sorrow hath its joy;
Twin sisters are they, as the proverb saith.
Martha.
Now let me hear the manner of his death.
Mephistopheles.
Where Padua’s sacred turrets rise,
Above the grave of holy Antony,
On consecrated ground thy husband lies,
And slumbers for eternity.
Martha.
No further message? is this all?
Mephistopheles.
Yes! one request, and that not small.
For his soul’s peace, your good man wanted
Three hundred masses to be chanted.
This is the whole of my commission.
Martha.
What! not a jewel? not a coin?
No journeyman, however poor,
However wild, could make such an omission,
But in the bottom of his pouch is sure
To keep some small memorial for his wife,
And rather beg, and rather pine
Away the remnant of his life—
Mephistopheles.
Madam! for your hard case I greatly grieve,
But your good husband had no gold to leave.
His sins and follies he lamented sore—
Yes! and bewailed his own mishap much more.
Margaret.
Alas for all the miseries of mankind!
He shall not want my oft-repeated prayer.
Mephistopheles. [to Margaret]
Thou, gentle heart, dost well deserve to find
A husband worthy of a bride so fair.
Margaret.
Ah no!—for that, it is too soon.
Mephistopheles.
