Balmy night is made for music;
Music is our common sphere;
In the act of singing, we are
We, Peer Gynt and nightingale.
And the maiden's very sleeping
Is my passion's crowning bliss;—
For the lips protruded o'er the
Beaker yet untasted quite
But she's coming, I declare!
After all, it's best she should.
Anitra.
[From the tent.]
Master, call'st thou in the night?
Peer.
Yes indeed, the Prophet calls.
I was wakened by the cat
With a furious hunting-hubbub
Anitra.
Ah, not hunting-noises, Master;
It was something much, much worse.
Peer.
What, then, was't?
Anitra.
Oh, spare me!
Peer.
Speak.
Anitra.
Oh, I blush to
Peer.
[Approaching.]
Was it, mayhap,
That which filled me so completely
When I let you have my opal?
