The distaff the first holds, so placid;
The threads she setteth,
And each one wetteth;
So her hanging lip is all dry and flaccid.
The spindle the second one dances
In a circle ’tis whirling,
In droll fashion twirling;
The old woman’s eyes shoot blood-red glances.
The third Fate’s hands, so befitting,
Hold the scissors so dreary,
She hums Miserere,
And sharp is her nose, with a wart on it sitting.
O hasten thee quickly, and sever
My life’s thread so sadd’ning,
Escaping this madd’ning
Turmoil of life’s distresses for ever!
XI.
I scorn the heavenly plains above me,
In the blest land of Paradise;
No fairer women there will love me
Than those whom here on earth I prize.
No angel blest, his high flight winging,
Could there replace my darling wife;
To sit on clouds, whilst psalms I’m singing,
Would small enjoyment give to life.
O Lord, methinks ’twere best to leave me
Upon this lower world to dwell;
But first from sufferings reprieve me,
Some money granting me as well.
The world, I know, is overflowing
With sin and misery; yet I
Have learnt full well the art of going
Along its pavement quietly.
Life’s bustle cannot now annoy me,
For ’tis but seldom that I roam;
Beside my wife I’d fain employ me
In slippers and loose-coat at home.