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!