Wine, No. 41

Up to this time, well-away! I concealed the truth from day, Went on loving skilfully. Now my fault at length is clear: That the hour of need is near, From my shape all eyes can see. So my mother gives me blows, So my father curses throws; They both treat me savagely. In the house alone I sit, Dare not walk about the street, Nor at play in public be.

If I walk about the street, Every one I chance to meet Scans me like a prodigy: When they see the load I bear, All the neighbours nudge and stare, Gaping while I hasten by; With their elbows nudge, and so With their finger point, as though I were some monstrosity; Me with nods and winks they spurn, Judge me fit in flames to burn For one lapse from honesty.

Why this tedious tale prolong? Short, I am become a song, In all mouths a mockery. By this am I done to death, Sorrow kills me, chokes my breath, Ever weep I bitterly. One thing makes me still more grieve, That my friend his home must leave For the same cause instantly; Therefore is my sadness so Multiplied, weighed down with woe, For he too will part from me.