SAILORS (without). Haul the warp!
Anchor down!
TRISTAN (starting wildly). Down with the anchor!
Her stern to the stream!
The sails a-weather the mast!
(He takes the cup from ISOLDA.)
I know the Queen
of Ireland well,
unquestioned are
her magic arts:
the balsam cured me
which she brought;
now bid me quaff the cup,
that I may quite recover.
Heed to my all—
atoning oath,
which in return I tender
Tristan's honor—
highest truth!
Tristan's anguish—
brave distress!
Traitor spirit,
dawn-illumined!
Endless trouble's
only truce!
Oblivion's kindly draught,
with rapture thou art quaff'd!
(He lifts the cup and drinks.)
ISOLDA. Betrayed e'en here?
I must halve it!—
(She wrests the cup from his hand.)
Betrayer, I drink to thee!
[She drinks, and then throws away the cup. Both, seized with shuddering, gaze with deepest emotion, but immovable demeanor, into one another's eyes, in which the expression of defiance to death fades and melts into the glow of passion. Trembling seizes them, they convulsively clutch their hearts and pass their hands over their brows. Their glances again seek to meet, sink in confusion, and once more turn with growing longing upon one another.]
ISOLDA (with trembling voice). Tristan!