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Pardon my intrusion; my men quite impatient will be, On each arrival home we have a frolic, And this time, I hope, it will be a marriage feast. Say, Senta, child, art thou inclined to wed my friend? Hier meine Hand, und ohne Reu’ Bis in den Tod gelob’ ich Treu’! Here my hand to the man of the sea: Unto death I will faithful be. Sie reicht die Hand: gesprochen sei Hohn Hölle dir, durch ihre Treu’!
Glaubt mir, wie schön, so ist sie treu! See the golden things I’ve brought Quite worthless trifles when compar’d With the riches in his vessel’s hold. And all his treasures will be shar’d, All his diamonds and all his gold, With thee, my child, if thou wilt say That thou wilt bless him with thy love, And be his wife without delay; Wed him, Senta, give him thy love!
Thou knowest well that gold is all thy father careth for, And he that can offer riches will wed his daughter sure. These the thoughts that fill my heart with grief, And then, Senta, thou, too, addest to my anguish. Dein Herz? I? And how? Was soll ich denken. Jenes Bild. . . Thy worship for that picture Das Bild? This picture? Lässt Du von Deiner Schwärmerei wohl ab?