Fischblut loves singing regardless of the song,
Eighth in the line he waits to take his turn,
Yet hopes his rival will not take too long.
One eye reflects a bed and one an urn;
The torches spit and crackle as they burn.
The rapiers keep the time: tick-tick, tick-tack!
One falls; one flees. Fischblut is left alone.
Gently he turns the corpse upon its back
And finds the hand he holds a fist of stone;
The fiddles falter on a semi-tone
A patter of papouches on the stair,
Fresh from her ravisher, with her hair in pins,
She swoons. He warbles an enchanting air.
His turn has come, for Fischblut always wins;
Off-stage the Catalogue Aria begins.