But for a poodle, whom his instinct serves
His master's track to find once more.
FAUST
Dost mark how round us, with wide spiral curves,
He wheels, each circle closer than before?
And, if I err not, he appears to me
A line of 'fire upon his track to leave.
WAGNER
Naught but a poodle black of hue I see;
'Tis some illusion doth your sight deceive.
FAUST
Methinks a magic coil our feet around,
He for a future snare doth lightly spread.
WAGNER
Around us as in doubt I see him shyly bound,
Since he two strangers seeth in his master's stead.