Mephistopheles [aside to her].  I know your face, for now ’twill do;
A distinguished lady is visiting you. 
For a call so abrupt be pardon meted,
This afternoon it shall be repeated.

Martha [aloud]. For all the world, think, child! my sakes!  The gentleman you for a lady takes.

Margaret.  Ah, God!  I am a poor young blood;
The gentleman is quite too good;
The jewels and trinkets are none of my own.

Mephistopheles.  Ah, ’tis not the jewels and trinkets alone; Her look is so piercing, so distingue!  How glad I am to be suffered to stay.

Martha.  What bring you, sir?  I long to hear—­

Mephistopheles.  Would I’d a happier tale for your ear!  I hope you’ll forgive me this one for repeating:  Your husband is dead and sends you a greeting.

Martha.  Is dead? the faithful heart!  Woe!  Woe!  My husband dead!  I, too, shall go!

Margaret.  Ah, dearest Dame, despair not thou!

Mephistopheles Then, hear the mournful story now!

Margaret.  Ah, keep me free from love forever, I should never survive such a loss, no, never!

Mephistopheles.  Joy and woe, woe and joy, must have each other.

Martha.  Describe his closing hours to me!

Mephistopheles.  In Padua lies our departed brother,
In the churchyard of St. Anthony,
In a cool and quiet bed lies sleeping,
In a sacred spot’s eternal keeping.

Martha.  And this was all you had to bring me?

Mephistopheles.  All but one weighty, grave request!  “Bid her, when I am dead, three hundred masses sing me!” With this I have made a clean pocket and breast.

Martha.  What! not a medal, pin nor stone? 
Such as, for memory’s sake, no journeyman will lack,
Saved in the bottom of his sack,
And sooner would hunger, be a pauper—­

Mephistopheles.  Madam, your case is hard, I own! 
But blame him not, he squandered ne’er a copper. 
He too bewailed his faults with penance sore,
Ay, and his wretched luck bemoaned a great deal more.

Margaret.  Alas! that mortals so unhappy prove!  I surely will for him pray many a requiem duly.

Mephistopheles.  You’re worthy of a spouse this moment; truly You are a child a man might love.

Margaret.  It’s not yet time for that, ah no!

Mephistopheles.  If not a husband, say, meanwhile a beau. 
It is a choice and heavenly blessing,
Such a dear thing to one’s bosom pressing.

Margaret.  With us the custom is not so.

Mephistopheles.  Custom or not!  It happens, though.

Martha.  Tell on!

Mephistopheles.  I slood beside his bed, as he lay dying,
Better than dung it was somewhat,—­
Half-rotten straw; but then, he died as Christian ought,
And found an unpaid score, on Heaven’s account-book lying. 
“How must I hate myself,” he cried, “inhuman! 
So to forsake my business and my woman! 
Oh! the remembrance murders me! 
Would she might still forgive me this side heaven!”