How beautiful you lay therein,

snow in a silent winter world.

Snow White:

Snow, always snow?

Prince:

Forgive me, you dear winter scene,

you likeness of serene white calm.

If I upset you, it happened

only for love. Now this love turns

away from you again weeping,

toward the Queen. Please forgive this love

for lifting you from that coffin,

the glass one, wherein you lay

with rosy cheeks, an open mouth,

and this breath just like one alive,

this picture to die for most sweet.

I should have left it just like that,

with love kneeling before you then.

Snow White:

Look, look! Now that I am alive

you dump me like a dead body!

How very strange you men all are.

Prince:

Rightly scold me. You’re being tender.

Hate me and I’ll kneel before you.

If you called me a rotten knave

it would fit well. But let me now

find that lovely Queen, for I wish

to free her from a love unworthy.

I beg of you, be very cross

with me, indeed, be very mad.

Snow White:

Why then? Give me a reason why?

Prince:

Well, because I’m such a villain

to run from you to another,

she who excites his mind more now.

Snow White:

You are not a villain! Well, well—

that mind, that mind of yours is more

excited? What’s on your mind is so

mindless. What a pack of dogs must

excite your mind such that you flee

like a terrified deer, the foe

pursuing you. Well, so be it.

So fly from me then to this stream

with the better water to lap.

I’ll remain, smiling, teasing you

with my pale white hand outstretched,

follow your flight with a gay voice

that calls: Snow White shall wait for you.

Come, knock on this familiar door

and laugh aloud. And then you turn

your dear, faithful head to me

begging me to just be quiet,

for shouting serves no purpose.—Go!

O go then, for I release you.

And do commend me to my Queen.

Prince:

Commend you to the Queen? What for?

Am I dreaming?

Snow White:

Well, am I not allowed to send

my regards to Mommy with you,

who’s down there in that shady park

occupied with her needlework?

She sews a token of her love—

what do I care. I owe her love,

and love sends its regards with you.

Say, I forgive her. No, not that.

Anyway, it doesn’t show well

for a child to be on her knees

and begging for me to forgive.

You’ll be half love’s own already

on your knees. Then say it like so,

in passing, like sugared pastry,

and pay heed when she nods so fair,

when she’s choking with emotion

and gives her hand for your hot kiss,

which sends, you being so chivalrous,

my forgiveness for this mistake.

How impatient I am for word