And she, the limp-skirt slattern, with the shoes
Heel-trodden, that squeak and clatter in her traces,
This is the winged maid who was his Muse
And escort to the kingdom of the graces!
Of all that fire this puff of smoke’s the end!
Sic transit gloria amoris, friend.
Svanhild.
Yes, it is wretched, wretched past compare.
I know of no one’s lot that I would share.
Falk [eagerly].