By ending his proud days a martyr
In dim Moldavia's vacant waste,
Far from the Rome his heart embraced.
(9)* 10
How early on he could dissemble,
Conceal his hopes, play jealous swain,
Compel belief, or make her tremble, S
eem cast in gloom or mute with pain,
Appear so proud or so forbearing,
At times attentive, then uncaring!
What languor when his lips were sealed,
What fiery art his speech revealed!
What casual letters he would send her!
He lived, he breathed one single dream,
How self-oblivious he could seem!
How keen his glance, how bold and tender;
And when he wished, he'd make appear
The quickly summoned, glistening tear!
11
How shrewdly he could be inventive
And playfully astound the young,
Use flattery as warm incentive,
Or frighten with despairing tongue.
And how he'd seize a moment's weakness
To conquer youthful virtue's meekness
Through force of passion and of sense,
And then await sweet recompense.
At first he'd beg a declaration,
And listen for the heart's first beat,
Then stalk love fasterand entreat
A lover's secret assignation . . .
And then in private he'd prepare
In silence to instruct the fair!
12
How early he could stir or worry
The hearts of even skilled coquettes!
And when he found it necessary
To crush a rivaloh, what nets,
What clever traps he'd set before him!
And how his wicked tongue would gore him!
But you, you men in wedded bliss,
You stayed his friends despite all this:
The crafty husband fawned and chuckled
(Faublas'* disciple and his tool),
As did the skeptical old fool,
And the majestic, antlered cuckold
So pleased with all he had in life:
Himself, his dinner, and his wife.
(13-14) 15
Some mornings still abed he drowses,
