In Padua lies our
departed
brother,
In the churchyard of St.
In the churchyard of St.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
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_.
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_.