If not a husband, say,
meanwhile
a beau.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
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!
_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!
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!
_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!
