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- The rogue now compels us
- To creep into caverns,
- For him alone
- To labour unthanked.
- Through the golden ring
- His greed can divine
- Where untouched treasure
- In hidden gorge gleams.
- We still must keep spying,
- Peering and delving:
- Must melt the booty,
- Which, molten, we forge
- Without pause or peace,
To heap up higher his hoard.
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| Mime
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- Poor Mime, ah!
- My lot was the hardest.
- I had to work,
- Forging a helmet,
- With strict instructions
- How to contrive it;
- And well I marked
- The wondrous might
- Bestowed by the helm
- That from steel I wrought.
- Hence I had gladly
- Held it as mine,
- And, by its virtue
Risen at last in revolt:
- Perchance, yes, perchance
The master himself I had mastered,
And, he in my power, had wrested,
The ring from him and used it
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