O be thou so good
     With sweat and with blood
     The crown to belime!

(They handle the crown awkwardly and break it into two pieces, with which they spring around.)

     ’Tis done, let it be! 
     We speak and we see,
     We hear and we rhyme!

FAUST (before the mirror)

Woe’s me!  I fear to lose my wits.

MEPHISTOPHELES (pointing to the Animals)

My own head, now, is really nigh to sinking.

THE ANIMALS

     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.)

THE WITCH

     Ow! ow! ow! ow! 
     The damned beast—­the cursed sow! 
     To leave the kettle, and singe the Frau! 
     Accursed fere!

(Perceiving FAUST and MEPHISTOPHELES.)

     What is that here? 
     Who are you here? 
     What want you thus? 
     Who sneaks to us? 
     The fire-pain
     Burn bone and brain!

(She plunges the skimming-ladle into the caldron, and scatters flames towards FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES, and the Animals.  The Animals whimper.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

(reversing the brush, which he has been holding in his hand, and striding among the jars and glasses)

     In two! in two! 
     There lies the brew! 
     There lies the glass! 
     The joke will pass,
     As time, foul ass! 
     To the singing of thy crew.

(As the WITCH starts back, full of wrath and horror)

Ha! know’st thou me?  Abomination, thou! 
Know’st thou, at last, thy Lord and Master? 
What hinders me from smiting now
Thee and thy monkey-sprites with fell disaster? 
Hast for the scarlet coat no reverence? 
Dost recognize no more the tall cock’s-feather? 
Have I concealed this countenance?—­
Must tell my name, old face of leather?

THE WITCH

O pardon, Sir, the rough salute! 
Yet I perceive no cloven foot;
And both your ravens, where are they now?

MEPHISTOPHELES