spirit he'll be cured.
[_To_ FAUST, _who has left the dance_.]
Why let the lovely girl slip through thy fingers,
Who to thy dance so sweetly sang?

_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_. Then saw I--

_Mephistopheles_. What?

_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.

_Intermezzo_.

_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