Choir for 4 voices
Soprano solo
Alto solo
Tenor I solo
Tenor II solo
Bass I solo
Bass II solo
Trumpet I + II + III
Bassdrum
Travers fluteI + II
Oboe I + II
Oboe d`amore
Violin I + II
Viola
Basso continuo

Now hasten
Ye winds of confusion,
At last, all together, the cavern inside!
That the to and fro of music
Even Echo might give pleasure
And the breezes bring delight!



Bass I (Phoebus): And thou art then so unashamed and bold
To look me in the face and say it,
That this thy song is lovelier than mine by far?
Bass II (Pan): How canst thou then still ask the question?
The wood's expanse doth marvel at my sound.
The choir of nymphs,
Which hath the reed devised by me
Of seven seemly stationed levels
For dancing frequently requested,
To thee themselves will testify:
Pan sings more fair than all rest.
Bass I (Phoebus): For nymphs thou art quite fit;
But still, the gods to offer pleasure,
Is this thy flute too poor indeed.
Bass II (Pan): As soon my sound the air doth fill,
Forth leap all the mountains and dance all the woods,
Then are perforce the branches bowing,
Beneath thy starry heavens
Enchanted exultation springs:
The birds alight before my feet,
And wish from me to learn their singing.
Sopran (Momus): Ha! I say, hear now Pan,
This mighty Meistersinger boast!

My lord, this is mere wind.
That one boasts and has no wealth,
That one that as truth doth hold
Which the eyes alone behold,
That the fools are keen of mind,
That good fortune, too, is blind,
My lord, this is mere wind.

Alto (Mercury): Why should ye need to wrangle?
Ye will ne'er twixt yourselves agree.
In my opinion, though so humble,
Each one of you should choose himself a man
Who twixt you should his judgment speak.
Let's see, who comes to mind?
Bass I (Phoebus): It's Tmolus who my judge should be.
Bass II (Pan): And Midas should now stand beside me.
Alto (Mercury): Then gather round, ye gentle people,
Hear all with diligence
And mark ye who can sing the best!

Filled with longing,
Would I press thy cheeks so tender,
Charming, handsome Hyacinth.
And thine eyes to kiss I'm yearning,
For they are my stars of morning
And my spirit's very sun.

Sopran (Momus): Pan, move now this thy throat as well
In well-constructed patterns!
Bass II (Pan): I will my best attempt
And yet more gloriously perform than Phoebus.

For dancing, for prancing now quavers my heart.
If the tune too labored ring,
And the mouth in bondage sing,
It will waken nought for sport.

Alto (Mercury): Come now, ye judges, forth!
Tenor I (Tmolus): The verdict is not hard for me,
And Truth itself will now declare it,
That Phoebus here the contest's prize hath captured.
Pan singeth for the woods,
The nymphs can he quite well give pleasure;
Indeed, so fair doth Phoebus' voice resound,
That now his flute cannot be treasured.

Phoebus, of thy melody
Was sweet Charm herself the mother.
Who, though, art here comprehends
As thy tune with wonder wends,
Will by it be quite transported.

Bass II (Pan): Come, Midas, now thyself pronounce
How I have done.
Tenor II (Midas): Oh Pan! How thou hast giv'n me strength!
Thy song, to me, did sound so lovely,
That I at once did learn it on the spot.
I shall now go here up and down the woodlands
And teach the very trees to sing it.
Yon Phoebus' song is too ornate;
But this thine oh-so-lovely mouth
Unforced did sing and lightly.

Pan's the master, let him reign!
Phoebus of this game's the loser,
For to each of my two ears Pan
Sang a song quite matchless fine.

Sopran (Momus): What, Midas, art thou mad?
Alto (Mercury): What hath from thee thy sense dislodged?
Tenor I (Tmolus): Just as I thought, thou art a clumsy boor.
Bass I (Phoebus): Come, what shall I do with thee?
Transform thee to a raven?
Or should I flail or even flay thee?
Tenor II (Midas): Ah! Torture me not so severely,
I merely gave
My judgment as I heard it.
Bass I (Phoebus): Behold, thou shalt then ass's ears be given.
Alto (Mercury): This is the prize
For mad ambition's errant ways.
Bass II (Pan): Ah, wherefore hast thou this great strife
Upon thy feeble shoulders taken?
Tenor II (Midas): In truth hath this commission brought
Me to disaster!

Puffed-up, swollen fervor,
Having little fiber
Gets a jangling miter
On its head at last.
He who sailing doth not know
And dares to the rudder go
Will drown with destruction and scandal at last.

Good fellow Midas, get thee hence
And lay thyself to rest within thy forest,
But be consoled within thy mind,
That thou hast many more such brothers.
Both ignorance and lack of sense
Would now to wisdom neighbors be,
For judgments are passed ev'ry day,
And those who judge
Belong each one within thy guild.
Pick up, O Phoebus, now
Again thy lyre.
There is nought lovelier than what thou singest.
Renew, O Phoebus, now
Music and singing,
Though rage both Hortens and Orbil against thee!

Soothe the heart, ye noble strings now,
Join, both art and charm, the sound.
Suffer censure, suffer insult,
But no less in your sweet music
Even gods have pleasure found.