Mephistopheles

Quite right! The mark I also note. Her head beneath her arm she’ll sometimes carry; Twas Perseus lopped it, her old adversary. Thou crav’st the same illusion still! Come, let us mount this little hill; The Prater shows no livelier stir, And, if they’ve not bewitched my sense, I verily see a theatre. What’s going on?

SERVIBILIS ’Twill shortly recommence: A new performance—’tis the last of seven. To give that number is the custom here: ’Twas by a Dilettante written, And Dilettanti in the parts appear. That now I vanish, pardon, I entreat you! As Dilettante I the curtain raise.

MEPHISTOPHELES When I upon the Blocksberg meet you, I find it good: for that’s your proper place.