English poem
The Animals
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)
If lucky our hits, And everything fits, ’Tis thoughts, and we’re thinking!
FAUST (as above)
My bosom burns with that sweet vision; Let us, with speed, away from here!
MEPHISTOPHELES (in the same attitude)
One must, at least, make this admission— They’re poets, genuine and sincere.
(The caldron, which the SHE-APE has up to this time neglected to watch, begins to boil over: there ensues a great flame, which blazes out the chimney. The WITCH comes careering down through the flame, with terrible cries.)