Young witch.  Powder becomes, like petticoat,
Your little, gray old woman: 
Naked I sit upon my goat,
And show the untrimmed human.

Matron.  To stand here jawing[43] with you, we
Too much good-breeding cherish;
But young and tender though you be,
I hope you’ll rot and perish.

Leader of the music.  Fly-snouts and gnat-noses, please,
Swarm not so round the naked! 
Grass-hid crickets, frogs in trees,
Keep time and don’t forsake it!

Weathercock [towards one side].  Find better company, who can! 
Here, brides attended duly! 
There, bachelors, ranged man by man,
Most hopeful people truly!

Weathercock [towards the other side]. 
And if the ground don’t open straight,
The crazy crew to swallow,
You’ll see me, at a furious rate,
Jump down to hell’s black hollow.

Xenia[44] We are here as insects, ah! 
Small, sharp nippers wielding,
Satan, as our cher papa,
Worthy honor yielding.

Hennings.  See how naively, there, the throng
Among themselves are jesting,
You’ll hear them, I’ve no doubt, ere long,
Their good kind hearts protesting.

Musagetes.  Apollo in this witches’ group
Himself right gladly loses;
For truly I could lead this troop
Much easier than the muses.

Ci-devant genius of the age.  Right company will raise man up. 
Come, grasp my skirt, Lord bless us! 
The Blocksberg has a good broad top,
Like Germany’s Parnassus.

Curious traveller.  Tell me who is that stiff man? 
With what stiff step he travels! 
He noses out whate’er he can. 
“He scents the Jesuit devils.”

Crane.  In clear, and muddy water, too,
The long-billed gentleman fishes;
Our pious gentlemen we view
Fingering in devils’ dishes.

Child of this world.  Yes, with the pious ones, ’tis clear,
“All’s grist that comes to their mill;”
They build their tabernacles here,
On Blocksberg, as on Carmel.

Dancer.  Hark! a new choir salutes my ear! 
I hear a distant drumming. 
“Be not disturbed! ’mong reeds you hear
The one-toned bitterns bumming.”

Dancing-master. How each his legs kicks up and flings,
Pulls foot as best he’s able! 
The clumsy hops, the crooked springs,
’Tis quite disreputable!

Fiddler.  The scurvy pack, they hate, ’tis clear,
Like cats and dogs, each other. 
Like Orpheus’ lute, the bagpipe here
Binds beast to beast as brother.

Dogmatist.  You’ll not scream down my reason, though,
By criticism’s cavils. 
The devil’s something, that I know,
Else how could there be devils?

Idealist.  Ah, phantasy, for once thy sway
Is guilty of high treason. 
If all I see is I, to-day,
’Tis plain I’ve lost my reason.