FALK.
Nej, der er sejr, hvor to går frem i enighed.
Vi vil ej sogne mer til platheds kirke,
som led af trivialitetens menighed!
Se, målet for personlighedens virke
er dog at stå selvstændig, sand og fri.
Det svigter ikke jeg og ikke De.
Et sjæleliv i Deres årer banker,
De ejer varme ord for stærke tanker.
De vil ej tåle formens snørliv lagt
om Deres hjerte, frit må det pulsere;
De fik ej stemme til at sekundere
i fælleskoret efter vedtægts takt.
FALK.
No, triumph waits upon two souls in unity.
To Custom’s parish-church no more we’ll wend,
Seatholders in the Philistine community.
See, Personality’s one aim and end
Is to be independent, free and true.
In that I am not wanting, nor are you.
A fiery spirit pulses in your veins,
For thoughts that master, you have works that burn;
The corslet of convention, that constrains
The beating hearts of other maids, you spurn.
The voice that you were born with will not chime to
The chorus Custom’s baton gives the time to.
