Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Heinemann Volume 4).djvu/199

 Balmy night is made for music; Music is our common sphere; In the act of singing, we are We, Peer Gynt and nightingale. And the maiden's very sleeping Is my passion's crowning bliss;— For the lips protruded o'er the Beaker yet untasted quite But she's coming, I declare! After all, it's best she should.

[From the tent.]

Master, call'st thou in the night?

Yes indeed, the Prophet calls. I was wakened by the cat With a furious hunting-hubbub

Ah, not hunting-noises, Master; It was something much, much worse.

What, then, was't?

Oh, spare me!

Speak.

Oh, I blush to

[Approaching.]

Was it, mayhap, That which filled me so completely When I let you have my opal?