Faust. Yes, 'tis a dead one's eyes that stare upon me,
Eyes that no loving hand e'er closed;
That is the angel form of her who won me,
Tis the dear breast on which I once reposed.
Mephistopheles. 'Tis sorcery all, thou fool, misled by passion's dreams! For she to every one his own love seems.
Faust. What bliss! what woe! Methinks I never
My sight from that sweet form can sever.
Seeft thou, not thicker than a knife-blade's back,
A small red ribbon, fitting sweetly
The lovely neck it clasps so neatly?
Mephistopheles. I see the streak around her neck.
Her head beneath her arm, you'll next behold her;
Perseus has lopped it from her shoulder,—
But let thy crazy passion rest!
Come, climb with me yon hillock's breast,
Was e'er the Prater[40] merrier then?
And if no sorcerer's charm is o'er me,
That is a theatre before me.
What's doing there?
Servibilis. They'll straight begin again.
A bran-new piece, the very last of seven;
To have so much, the fashion here thinks fit.
By Dilettantes it is given;
'Twas by a Dilettante writ.
Excuse me, sirs, I go to greet you;
I am the curtain-raising Dilettant.
Mephistopheles. When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, That I approve; for there's your place, I grant.
WALPURGIS-NIGHT'S DREAM, OR OBERON AND TITANIA'S GOLDEN NUPTIALS.
Intermezzo.
Theatre manager. Here, for once, we rest, to-day,
Heirs of Mieding's[41] glory.
All the scenery we display—
Damp vale and mountain hoary!
Herald. To make the wedding a golden one,
Must fifty years expire;
But when once the strife is done,
I prize the gold the higher.