_Faust_. Ah, right amidst her singing, sprang A wee red mouse from her mouth and made me cower.
_Mephistopheles_. That's nothing wrong! You're in a dainty way; Enough, the mouse at least wan't gray. Who minds such thing in happy amorous hour?
_Faust_. Mephisto, seest thou not Yon pale, fair child afar, who stands so sad and lonely, And moves so slowly from the spot, Her feet seem locked, and she drags them only. I must confess, she seems to me To look like my own good Margery.
_Mephistopheles_. Leave that alone! The sight no health can bring. it is a magic shape, an idol, no live thing. To meet it never can be good! Its haggard look congeals a mortal's blood, And almost turns him into stone; The story of Medusa thou hast known.
_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.
_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.