MARTHA
No trinket! no love-token did he send!
What every journeyman safe in his pouch will hoard
There for remembrance fondly stored,
And rather hungers, rather begs than spend!
MEPHISTOPHELES
Madam, in truth, it grieves me sore,
But he his gold not lavishly bath spent.
His failings too he deeply did repent,
Ay! and his evil plight bewail'd still more.
MARGARET
Alas! That men should thus be doomed to woe!
I for his soul will many a requiem pray.
MEPHISTOPHELES
A husband you deserve this very day;
A child so worthy to be loved.
MARGARET
Ah no,
That time bath not yet come for me.