My sceptre this: I wait to get my crown.
The Animals. [Who had in the interval been wheeling about with strange antic gestures, bring a crown to Mephistopheles, with loud shouts.]
O be but so good,
With sweat and with blood,
Your crown to glue,
As monarchs do!
[They use the crown rather roughly, in consequence of which it falls into two pieces, with which they jump about.]
O sorrow and shame!
’Tis broken, no doubt:
But we’ll make a name,