What? Art thou mad? Come close to me again.
Forget this nightmare. Rather, tell me it,
And I will soothe thee. Have I not a balm,
A sovereign comfort in my old caress?
Tannhäuser.
I must begone. She waits.
Venus.
Who waits? Come here!
Let us talk fondly, set together still,
Not with these shouts and wavings of the arms,