Meph. Ay, that’s the house that holds the guardian maid
Who is to lead you whither you should go,
And save your lordship from yourself—and me.
Henceforth that hovel is to be your church,
With savoury fumes of roast and boiled for incense;
The dim recesses of the chimney corner
Will serve you as a snug confessional.
How say you? Will you enter? If you do,
You’ll find the fair high priestess of the shrine
Intent upon the secular employ