XXXIII
And it may be a secret dread
Lest the world or her lord divine
A certain little escapade
Well known unto Onegin mine.
’Tis hopeless! Homeward doth he flee
Cursing his own stupidity,
And brooding o’er the ills he bore,
Society renounced once more.
Then in the silent cabinet
He in imagination saw
The time when Melancholy’s claw
’Mid worldly pleasures chased him yet,
Caught him and by the collar took
And shut him in a lonely nook.