Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;

          I try to think in vain, to whom or how

         Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind. —

          I'll show she's like the moon, I vow!

         The moon — she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,

          By eating stolen bread her living gets, —

         Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,

          While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.

         The moon — for this may Herod give her thanks! —

          Reserves her best till night may have returned;

         Our lady swallows up by day the francs

          That she at night-time may have earned.

         The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,

          As surely as the month comes round;

         With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween —

          But she to need more time is found!

         The moon to love her silver-horns is said,

          But makes a sorry show;

         She likes them on her husband's head, —

          She's right to have it so

         In truth, when I have crossed dark Lethe's river,

         The man upon the right I'll love forever,

           For 'twas he first that wrote for me.

         For all the world the left man wrote, full clearly,

         And so we all should love him dearly;

           Come, left man! I must needs kiss thee!

         Once the nine all weeping came

          To the god of song

         "Oh, papa!" they there exclaim —

          "Hear our tale of wrong!

         "Young ink-lickers swarm about

          Our dear Helicon;

         There they fight, manoeuvre, shout,

          Even to thy throne.

         "On their steeds they galop hard

          To the spring to drink,

         Each one calls himself a bard —

          Minstrels — only think!

         "There they — how the thing to name!

          Would our persons treat —

         This, without a blush of shame,

          We can ne'er repeat;

         "One, in front of all, then cries,

          'I the army lead!'

         Both his fists he wildly plies,

          Like a bear indeed!

         "Others wakes he in a trice

          With his whistlings rude;

         But none follow, though he twice

          Has those sounds renewed.

         "He'll return, he threats, ere long,

          And he'll come no doubt!

         Father, friend to lyric song,

          Please to show him out!"

         Father Phoebus laughing hears

          The complaint they've brought;

         "Don't be frightened, pray, my dears,

          We'll soon cut them short!

         "One must hasten to hell-fire,

          Go, Melpomene!

         Let a fury borrow lyre,

          Notes, and dress, of thee.

         "Let her meet, in this array,

          One of these vile crews,

         As though she had lost her way,

          Soon as night ensues.

         "Then with kisses dark, I trust,

          They'll the dear child greet,

         Satisfying their wild lust

          Just as it is meet!" —

         Said and done! — Then one from hell