the hypocrite, who even now

stands idle. I will shortly go

and see that she gets back to work.

She closes the window.

Change of scene. A room in the royal palace.

Prince:

What makes me so melancholy?

Is my mind taking leave of me?

Is my life oppressed by remorse?

Is it in my nature to grieve?

Grief is sweet joy’s adversary,

which I feel when I’m miserable.

But from where intrudes this sly shame

on my abandoned wits? Neither

wit nor its friend insight can tell.

I simply bear it in silence

while it weighs on me.—Ah, music!*

Whose voice sounds so serenely clear?

Whatever it is, I kiss it

kissing me so impossibly.

In this sweet kiss lies tranquil calm.

Grief has fled. I hear nothing more

than this sound. I feel nothing more

than this lovely dance’s lesson

with my limbs. Could melancholy

dance with so light a step? Well there,

it’s flown out the door and I feel

wonderfully happy once more.

The Fool?

Fool:

It’s the Fool indeed and ever

the fool, it’s the fool of the realm,

the world’s fool and that dear sweet fool

who’d be nothing if not foolish,

the paragon of foolery,

a fool on Monday and likewise

Saturday night, a fool all told,

a fool for himself and for his lord,

a right humble fool for his lord.

Prince:

Now tell me something, what is grief?

Fool:

It is a fool, and who admits

it himself is no less a fool.

That you are its fool I can tell

by that bittersweet face of yours.

Oy, even your youth calls you fool

and so happens the fool himself.

Prince:

Is there not a cause for my grief?

Fool:

You are its cause, the soil from which

it gaily blooms. You are the scales

on which it weighs itself, the bed

on which it lies stretched out. There is

no other reason save yourself.

Prince:

How then can I escape this grief

when I am such a pool of it,

what I would dare call: grief itself?

Fool:

Does a fool have to tell you this?

Should foolishness be so lofty,

may I ask, over the head of

a well-bred man? Why? Admit it,

this thing ill suits that wit of yours.

Prince:

I have whipped my wit, I flog it

like a tired lazy dog no more.

Now it’s dead and it will never

wag its little tail anymore.

Fool:

I think it’s right that we switch clothes.

You are a fool and as a fool

I take you by the ear. Next slap

yourself on the head, call yourself

stupid, and then you must stoop low

to my jokes that ridicule you.

Is this what you want? Have you had

enough of majesty—really?

Prince:

I’d be happy to give them up.

However, for your cap and bells,

I cannot exchange my burden