THE POET. But tell me at least before you go: from what did you suffer most of all down here?
THE DAUGHTER. From—being: to feel my vision weakened by an eye, my hearing blunted by an ear, and my thought, my bright and buoyant thought, bound in labyrinthine coils of fat. You have seen a brain—what roundabout and sneaking paths——
THE POET. Well, that is because all the right-minded think crookedly!
THE DAUGHTER. Malicious, always malicious, all of you!
THE POET. How could one possibly be otherwise?
THE DAUGHTER. First of all I now shake the dust from my feet—the dirt and the clay—
[Takes off her shoes and puts them into the fire.
THE PORTRESS. [Puts her shawl into the fire] Perhaps I may burn my shawl at the same time? [Goes out.
THE OFFICER. [Enters] And I my roses, of which only the thorns are left. [Goes out.
THE BILLPOSTER. [Enters] My bills may go, but never the dipnet! [Goes out.