©Biblioteca Nacional de Colombia

168 FAUST
MEPHISTOPHELES. Who knows where heaven's four
winds have scattered it ?
Bury it ?-no, his heart was far from sordid:
That his death proves, his generous nature hurried it.
A lady, one of your nice Neapolitans,
As he was loitering in their pleasant city,
Looked on his loneliness, kind soul, with pity,
And saw his vanity-and soothed and flattered it­
Fastened upon him, led him such a jolly dance,
That with his cash, and him, all was soon over.
Marks of affection, too, she gave her lover,
Of such a kind, that to the blessed hour
In which your poor saint died, he felt their power.
MARTHA. Scoundrel, to use his wife and children so !
Ought not the poverty, which his neglect
Had heaped on us, his shameless course have checked?
MEPHISTOPHELES. It ought; and be is punished for
it now:
But as this will not mend the case,
I would, if I were in your place,
Put on my mourning, keep a good eye out,
And wed again, when the year came about.
MARTHA. Where could I find, in this wide world of
men,
Anything like my own poor man again ?
There could not be a creature kinder, fonder;
His only fault was, he from home would wander;
And when I think of him, my eyes are swimming:
He was so good, without a single v:ice,
Except his taste for foreign wines and women,
And the society they bring-and dice.
MEPHISTOPHELES. "ell! if on his side he had only
made
Allowances as just and generous,
Your quarrels had been easily allayed.
"Vhy, I myself-if you indulge me thus­
With such good sense-in a few little tbings­
Am tempted to propose exchanging rings.
MARTHA. Oh, Sir, you are a pleasant gentleman :­
Sure you were speaking but in jest.
©Biblioteca Nacional de Colombia