IX

3 0 00

IX

“What can be drearier than the house,

Wherein the miserable wife

Deplores a most unworthy spouse

And leads a solitary life?

The tiresome man, her value knowing,

Yet curses on his fate bestowing,

Is full of frigid jealousy,

Mute, solemn, frowning gloomily.

Such am I. This did ye expect,

When in simplicity ye wrote

Your innocent and charming note

With so much warmth and intellect?

Hath fate apportioned unto thee

This lot in life with stern decree?