We hold Fate's reins, we drive her hither, thither,
And neither friend nor mother shall have right
To say unto my budding blossom: Wither!
For I am earnest and her eyes are bright,
And so it must unfold into the light!

FALK.
Yes, Fortune likes you, you will serve her turn!

LIND.
My spirits like wild music glow and burn;
I feel myself a Titan: though a foss
Opened before me--I would leap across!

FALK.
Your love, you mean to say, in simple prose,
Has made a reindeer of you.

LIND.
Well, suppose;
But in my wildest flight, I know the nest
In which my heart's dove longs to be at rest!

FALK.
Well then, to-morrow it may fly _con brio_,
You're off into the hills with the quartette.
I'll guarantee you against cold and wet--

LIND.
Pooh, the quartette may go and climb in _trio_,