Do you not know the Lady of Love? Do you not know her power, her miracles? Queen of high hearts, ruler of earth's destinies, life and death are subject to her. She weaves them out of pain and pleasure. She can change hate into love. Presumptuous, I took in hand the work of death. The Lady of Love wrested it from me. The death-devoted she took into her keeping, she seized the work in her own hands.
I am very ill to-day I have a splitting headache and I am weak. It is from trying to save too much money for the dumb-bell, I fear. But I laugh what care I? My body is going to wreck but what care I? Ah, it is a fine thing to be death-devoted, and freed from all the ills that flesh is heir to! I go my way do what I please hammer on and on, and let happen what will. What, old head! wilt ache?
Slow, involuntary, words drop from her lips, her inmost thoughts speaking to herself, while her eyes brood gloomily upon the unconscious head. "Mine elected, lost to me! Lofty and beautiful, brave and craven! Death-devoted head! Death-devoted heart!" Starting awake at the ring of her own words, she laughs unpleasantly and, turning to Brangaene: "What do you think of the lackey yonder?"
BURLEIGH. She is condemned to death; her head is laid Beneath the axe, and it would ill become The queen to see a death-devoted head. The sentence cannot have its execution If the queen's majesty approaches her, For pardon still attends the royal presence, As sickness flies the health-dispensing hand. Oh, what is man! What is the bliss of earth!
SCENE II. The curtain thrown back discloses the deck of the ship with the crew grouped around Tristan, who is steering, his man Kurwenal reclining near him. The refrain of the sailors' song is again heard. Isolde's eyes are fixed upon Tristan as she begins to the strain of the love-motive accompanied by muted strings: Chosen for me! lost to me! . . . . . Death-devoted head! Death-devoted heart!
I have thought with thee all the thoughts I have to think!" I have made me right drunk upon life, yes, that is the truth; and now the feast is over, and I will smash the crockery! Come, boys, come! Away with it! Through the window here with the head look out of the way below there for the stomach ha, ha! Is not that Shakespearian humor for you? Such a thing it is to be death-devoted!