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.
A lover, then, might in the meantime do.
’Tis bounteous Heaven’s choicest boon
To fondle in one’s arms so sweet a thing as you.
Margaret.
Such things are never done with us.
Mephistopheles.
Done or not done!—it may be managed thus:—
Martha.
Now let me hear!
Mephistopheles.
