THE FOOL. (chants)
In this harsh world and old
Why must we cherish
Fires that grow not cold
In hearts that perish?
With the strong floods of hate
I cleansed my bosom,
But springeth soon and late
The fiery blossom.
What though some lying tale
The mind dissembles?
The scarlet lip turns pale,
The strong hand trembles….
THE SAILOR. No, no, not that one! That one hasn't any tune to it, and it isn't about girls. It's no song at all. I meant the one—you know— about the young widow. How did it go? (He swigs from the flagon.) But I mustn't forget the Prince. Where's that Prince?
THE FOOL. Oh, yes, the Prince. Of course. We mustn't forget the Prince.
Come along with me. (He leads the sailor off through the rose-arbour.
The door of the palace opens, disclosing the Prince and the Queen.)
He clasps her hands and then descends the steps.
THE QUEEN. Wait!
She runs down, and tenderly embraces him.
THE PRINCE. Farewell.