Deluded fool! 'Tis magic, I declare! To each she doth his lov'd one's image wear.
FAUST
What bliss! what torture! vainly I essay
To turn me from that piteous look away.
How strangely doth a single crimson line
Around that lovely neck its coil entwine,
It shows no broader than a knife's blunt edge!
MEPHISTOPHELES
Quite right. I see it also, and allege
That she beneath her arm her head can bear,
Since Perseus cut it off.—But you I swear
Are craving for illusion still!
Come then, ascend yon little hill!
As on the Prater all is gay,
And if my senses are not gone,
I see a theatre,—what's going on?
SERVIRILIS
They are about to recommence;—the play
Will be the last of seven, and spick-span new—'
'Tis usual here that number to present.
A dilettante did the piece invent,
And dilettanti will enact it too.
Excuse me, gentlemen; to me's assign'd
As dilettante to uplift the curtain.
MEPHISTOPHELES
You on the Blocksberg I'm rejoiced to find,
That 'tis your most appropriate sphere is certain.