my fancy; afterward will I

be the divine order once more.

Government enjoys its sleep too,

and the father of the law is

only human.

Prince:

I would willingly hold my breath

to hear her step all the better.

Yet she has such a light footstep

that even this inkling can’t tell

when she approaches. O, she draws

near, here to this impatient sense,

whose muscles tear themselves apart

to feel her near. The way being near

can be so sweet when it concerns

the lover, and how brutal she is

when something bad intrudes on us.

Here only something lovely should

really be intruding, and yet

this is never the way of love.

She’s silent where she must forget;

she doesn’t have this loud echo

that signals falsehood. O, she is

rich, and words aren’t necessary

to remember her by; surely,

O surely this dearest creature

cannot be far. My feeling says

this with spirit. Just the patience

to not evade who bides her time

is the one thing I think about.

I must stand here, standing as firm

as if some word could order me.

Lovers happily wait. To dream

of the beloved makes time fly.

What is time but just a quarrel

of impatience now becalmed?

What’s that shining there upon me?

He comes down from the gallery.

King:

I don’t know what is the matter,

why I’m married to silence here.

I’m too old for marriage. Reason

scolds me, points its finger at me,

laughing out loud, but what’s so wrong?

Of course I’m old and have a right

to be foolish. The indulgence

goes very sprightly with white hair

in general. I indulge my son

to play the guardian bravely.

Out of caprice, which at my age,

you know, limps behind. I’ll drop it,

as the spirit of youth would want.

I’m falling asleep—fatigue sits

well in my silver hair, like sleep

to a mind old and head-shaking.

Prince (below, with a shoe in his hand):

I see this thing as a portent

to approaching glory and love.

It’s a shoe for a shapely foot.

It speaks of a pleasing nature

as if it had a mouth, a gift

for eloquence. And these fine jewels

do not belong to her sisters,

who have turned to stone over there.

Where would they get such a foot too,

so narrowly shaped for this shoe?

Just whom could it belong to then?

I don’t want to face this question.

It scares me. Could it really be?

Does it belong to the girl? No,

I torture myself needlessly.

Who would give her silver and gold,

who would give her such royal jewels?

And yet some inkling speaks to me

of Cinderella, which reveals

her strange behavior, her distance,

her style. Magic, as I well know,

is a possibility here.

I want to want it, for I can’t

hold it, cannot get a grasp.