She’s trembling in the heat of fever, For him she waits and doesn’t hear That in the garden maidens sing, While they are gathering, not seen, In bushes berries: they were given To sing strict order (while they job To make them banns not to rob As berries never could be eaten: In country they invented then The way the banns to defend!),
Maiden’s Song
Maidens dear, beautiful, We are mates in friendliness,
Let us play inventfully, Lot us play more happily,
Let us sing in gaiety Song of maidens intimate,
Lets attract. brave fellow To the chorus merriful,
When we get that fellow, When we see him, instantly
Let’s away get rapidly, Him bespatter easily
With the berries laughingly, Don’t hear secretly
Maiden’s singing intimate, Don’t peep invisibly
At the games of maidenhood.
XL
But she’s neglectful to the singing, To ringing voices of the maids,
She waits impatiently for feeling That hearty tremble now fades,
That gets away of cheecks the flaming.
Her breast as yet is greatly trembling,
But doesn’t lade the heat of cheeks, And brighter, strickingly it heats,
As well as poor moth is blending And shines like rainbowed a thing
When him a schoolboy clips the wing, Or like a little hare’s trembling
When sees: a hunter from afar At him is looking so far,
XLI
At last she’s very deeply sighing, From little bench is getting
is going, and when she’s trying To turn aside... is coming up
Just He! His gaze on her he’s fixing, Like dreadful shade for her he’s reaching,
And she, as if she’s burned by flame, Has stopped at once and looks away...
But sequels of the sudden meeting To-day, my dear reader-friend,
I cannot show to the end As I must go after speaking
To have a rest and have a hike, That’s why I’ll finish other time.
CHAPTER FOUR
La morale est dans la natura des choses.
Necker The morality is In the nature of things.
I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII
The less we love a pretty woman, The easier she’s liking us,
The surely we may her min Among the nets of tempting fuss.
The cool debauchery was known As science of the love: its own
Delights it glorifies itself, Without love it revels self.
But such amusements, yet important, Are worthy of an old ape
Of praised grandfather’s old age: The Lovelace fame is now rottened
With all the fame of red high heels, With grand, magestic old wigs.
VIII
Who isn’t bored to be dissembling, To tell the same who never ends?
Who grandly tries but mere rambling To prove the people: eggs is eggs?
Who listens to the same objections And bans the thoughts of wrong reflections
Of girls, which never had that sin As they are only thirteen?
Whom don’t bore the falseful fears, The prayers, swears, threats and hints,
Love-letter secrets on six sheets, The fraud, the gossip, rings, the tears,
Of many kin suspicious gaze, Of husbands friendship’s heavy haze?
IX
That was the way of Eugene’s thinking.
In his first youth he was untrained,