What bliss! what torture! vainly I essay To turn me from that piteous look
away. How strangely doth a single crimson line Around that lovely neck its
coil entwine, It shows no broader than a knife's blunt edge!
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?
They are about to recommence; - the play Will be the last of seven, and spick