My sorrow wanes at your fair speech. Do that, and wholly at your will I hold me. THE DEVIL One little matter still; But grant my prayer, and well will you betide. MARY What is your prayer? THE DEVIL To lay your name aside. And give yourself another therefor. Mary’s a name I never learned to care for. Along of one Mary I and my fellows into such mischief fell That ’tis a name we like but indifferent well. Were ye called Lisbeth or Lina or Gretchen, my dear, It would get you more, I’ll be sworn, in a year Than ever ye had of kin or kith. MARY Alas, wherefore do ye take ill therewith? ’Tis ever the sweetest and noblest name That the tongue of man can fashion or frame. Why should ye thereagainst make war? I may not change, for worlds and more, A name which nought could make more sweet. THE DEVIL Tut, tut! It’s all about one’s feet Again, but if she will thereto consent!— Would we, my dear, to our content Go wandering, ye must change that name, Or here we part. Yet more I claim Of you. A promise is a debt. MARY What must it be? THE DEVIL Not to forget, Come weal, come woe, I cannot bear To have you cross yourself. MARY I grant it well and fair. On crossing I set but little store. But my name I can ill brook to give o’er. For Maria, whence I have it, is my hope and trust, And when in sorrow I am thrust I cry on her to intercede. Daily thus I bid my bede Even as a child I learned it of yore. Praised be Mary evermore! While I have life I will ne’er have done, Though wild and wanton I may run, With praising her, nor at all forget. THE DEVIL Well, since your will be wholly set Upon this name, I will somewhat abate: Of all the letters keep at any rate The first and drop the other three; That is the M, and Emma shall ye be, As in your countryside be many a maid and dame. MARY Well, since I may not have my proper name I were indeed to blame, if we parted for a letter; Emma I am, since I may be no better: But still I like it not. THE DEVIL Nay, come, If ye have not everything beneath your thumb Within the year, I have nought to say. Haste we to Bolduc without a stay And thenceward let us take no rest Ere to Antwerp we have pressed; There we shall a wonder show. By that, the tongues ye shall wholly know At your desire, I pledge me to ’t, And the seven liberal arts, to boot. Bastard and malmsey shall ye drink. But be my friend and ye may not think Of the marvels all ye shall do and see.— But at last your soul belongs to me!