The pious man too here is.
Worldling.
Yes! though the saints declare that sin
And Blocksberg are identical,
Yet here, amid this demon din,
They’ll set up their conventicle.
Dancer.
A sound of drums! a sound of men!
That wafted on the wind came!—
The weary bitterns in the fen
Are booming—never mind ’em!
Dancing-Master.
Lo! how they kick, and how they jump!
How well each figure shown is!
Springs the crooked, hops the plump!
Each thinks him an Adonis!
A Good Fellow.
A sorry lot! What muffled ire
Their swelling breasts inflames here!
The beasts were tamed by Orpheus’ lyre,
And them the bagpipe tames here!
Professor of Systematic Theology.
I let no one bamboozle me
With doubts and critic cavils;
The devil sure must something be,
Else whence so many devils?
Idealist.
Imagination travels free
Without or rein or rule here;
If I am all that now I see,
Myself must be a fool here.
Realist.
That on the Brocken ghosts appear
Now scarce admits disputing;
Amid this hurly burly here
I’ve fairly lost my footing.
Supernaturalist.
Into this swarming hellish brood
I come, without intrusion;
From evil spirits to the good,
It is a just conclusion.
Sceptic.
They chase the flame that flits about,
And deem them near their treasure;
Best rhymes with doubt this demon-rout,
And I look on with pleasure.
Leader of the Orchestra.
Snout of fly, and nose of gnat,
Ye stupid Dilettanti!
Frog and cricket, cat and bat,
