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.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
_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!"
_Martha_ [_weeping_]. The dear good man! he has been long forgiven.
_Mephistopheles_. "But God knows, I was less to blame than she."
