XII

2 0 00

XII

The butt of scandal having been,

’Tis dreadful⁠—ye agree, I hope⁠—

To pass with reasonable men

For a fictitious misanthrope,

A visionary mortified,

Or monster of Satanic pride,

Or e’en the “Demon” of my strain.

Onegin⁠—take him up again⁠—

In duel having killed his friend

And reached, with nought his mind to engage,

The twenty-sixth year of his age,

Wearied of leisure in the end,

Without profession, business, wife,

He knew not how to spend his life.