And she, the limp-skirt slattern, with the shoes
Heel-trodden, that squeak and clatter in her traces,
This is the winged maid who was his Muse
And escort to the kingdom of the graces!
Of all that fire this puff of smoke's the end!
Sic transit gloria amoris, friend.
Svanhild.
Yes, it is wretched, wretched past compare.
I know of no one's lot that I would share.
Falk [eagerly].
Then let us two rise up and bid defiance
To this same order Art, not Nature, bred!
Svanhild [shaking her head].
Then were the cause for which we made alliance
Ruined, as sure as this is earth we tread.
Falk.
No, triumph waits upon two souls in unity.
To Custom's parish-church no more we'll wend,
Seatholders in the Philistine community.
See, Personality's one aim and end
Is to be independent, free and true.
In that I am not wanting, nor are you.
A fiery spirit pulses in your veins,
For thoughts that master, you have words that burn;
The corslet of convention, that constrains
The beating hearts of other maids, you spurn.
