Thy life is over now, Don Juan:
Thy fingers are so shrunk
That all their rings from off their cold tips crowd,
Where limp thy hand hath sunk;
On a trestle-table laid, Don Juan,
A half-mask near thine ear,
A visor black in which void gape two gaps
Where through thou oft didst leer.
Thou waitest for the priests, Don Juan,
To bear thee to thy grave;
Thou'rt theirs at length beyond all doubt, but ha!
Hast now no soul to save.
Thou wast brought home last night, Don Juan,
Upon a stable door;
Beneath a young nun's casement, found dropped dead,
Where thou hadst wooed of yore:
To pay their trouble then, Don Juan,
Those base grooms took thy sword;
A rapier to fetch gold, with shagreened sheath,
Wrought hand-grip, and silk cord;
Which, with thy fame enhanced, Don Juan,
Were worth hidalgo's rent;
Yet on which now, at most, some few moidore
May by some fop be spent.
Dull brown a cloak enwraps, Don Juan,
Both thy lean shanks, one arm,
That old bird-cage thy breast, where like magpie
Thy heart hopped on alarm.
Yet out beyond thy cloak, Don Juan,
Thrust prim white-stocking'd feet--Silk-stocking'd
feet that in quadrille pranced round--
Slippers high-heeled and neat;
Thy silver-buckled shoes, Don Juan,
No more shall tread a floor,
Beside their heels upon the board lies now
A half-peeled onion's core:
Munching, a crone, that knew, Don Juan,
Thy best contrived plots,
Hobbles about the room, whose gaunt stone walls
Drear echo as she trots;
She makes her bundle up, Don Juan;
She'll not forget thy rings,
Thy buckles, nor silk stockings; nay, not she!
They'll go with her few things.
Those lids she hath pulled down, Don Juan,
That lowered ne'er for shame;
No spark from beauty more in thy brain pan,
Shall make its tinder flame:
Thou hast enjoyed all that, Don Juan,
Which good resolves doth daunt,
Which hypocrites doth tempt to stake vile souls,
Which cowards crave and want;
Thou wast an envied man, Don Juan,
Long shalt be envied still;
Thou hadst thy beauty as the proud pard hath,
And instinct trained to skill.