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.