_Mar._ (_indignantly_). Five hundred fiddlesticks! A wicked waste! _Meph._ Well, knowing all I know About his mode of life, I must admit It _is_ a waste; but so his will directs. _Mar._ And is that all? Left he no parting words Of penitence? _Meph._ Oh yes; as death drew near, He much bewailed his manifold transgressions And said that he could die more tranquilly Had he his wife’s forgiveness. _Mar._ Poor dear soul! I could forgive him, freely, everything, Except those masses! _Meph._ “Though it’s true,” said he, “In all our quarrels, and we’d many quarrels, She was invariably to blame.” _Mar._ A lie! A most observable and shameless lie! _Meph._ Alas! I fear that, as a rule, his words Were not distinguished by that love of truth That you and I deem indispensable. For instance, he declared that earning bread To feed so many mouths took all his time, And left no moment he could call his own! _Mar._ Again, a lie! I drudged from morn to night To feed and clothe his famished family, While he sat all day fuddling at the ale-house! Alas, he never cared for wife or child! _Meph._ Nay, there you wrong him. Give the deuce his due. Before he sailed he prayed to all the saints To bless his arms with full prosperity; So that, if he in battle should be slain, His widow yet might live in luxury. _Mar._ Poor soul! poor soul! Did Heaven so bless them? _Meph._ Yes. His prayer was heard. Some seven months ago He helped to take a Turkish galley, fraught With countless treasure. _Mar._ Why, that was well done. Brave man! _Meph._ Brave man! _Mar._ And what got he by that? _Meph._ His share of prize-money--twelve thousand marks! _Mar._ Twelve thousand marks! a fortune in itself! May Heaven forgive me all my angry words! He had a brave good heart. Where is the money? _Meph._ Ask his good heart. He never could resist A tale of sorrow eloquently told. _Mar._ (_alarmed_). What mean you? _Meph._ When at Naples, shortly after, He saw a girl--young, beautiful, but poor-- A very child, scarce seventeen years old. His tender heart gave way; she was so poor, And then so very young--scarce seventeen! He gave it all to her. _Mar._ All! _Meph._ Every florin. But then, she was so young--scarce seventeen---- _Mar._ At his old tricks! Then there is nothing left? _Meph._ You wrong him there; he left a priceless treasure, Compared with which his other paltry gains Sink into nothingness--a charming widow! _Mar._ You’re very good.