Von Eberkopf.
Exalted poet!
Peer.
[More and more elevated.]
The Gyntish Self—it is the host
Of wishes, appetites, desires,—
The Gyntish Self, it is the sea
Of fancies, exigencies, claims,
All that, in short, makes <g>my</g> breast heave,
And whereby I, as I, exist.
But as our Lord requires the clay
To constitute him God o' the world,
So I, too, stand in need of gold,
If I as Emperor would figure.
Monsieur Ballon.
You have the gold, though?
Peer.
Not enough.
Ay, maybe for a nine-days' flourish,
As Emperor à la[1] Lippe-Detmold.
But I must be myself en bloc,[1]
Must be the Gynt of all the planet,
Sir Gynt[1] throughout, from top to bottom!
Monsieur Ballon.
[Enraptured.]
Possess the earth's most exquisite beauty!
Von Eberkopf.
All century-old Johannisberger!
- ↑ So in original.
