English poem
Mephistopheles
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)
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?