When I thy book, friend, open hastily, Full many a cherish’d picture meets my view, And many a golden image that I knew In boyish dreams and days of infancy. Proudly tow’rd heaven upsoaring, then I see The pious dome, rotted by religion true, I bear the sound of bell and organ too, Love’s sweet lament at times addressing me. Well see I, too, how o’er the dome they skip, The nimble dwarfs, and with malicious joy The beauteous flow’r- and carvèd- work destroy. But though the oak of foliage we may strip, And rob it of its fair and verdant grace, When spring returns, fresh leaves it dons apace.
I take no notice of the blockheads tame Who, seeming to be golden, are but sand; I never offer to that rogue my hand Who secretly would injure my good name; I bow not to the harlots who proclaim Boldly their infamy throughout the land; And when in victor-cars the rabble band Draw their vain idols, with them I ne’er came. Well know I that the oak must fall indeed, Whilst by the streamlet’s side the pliant reed Stands in all winds and weathers, fearing not; But say, what is the reed’s eventual lot? What joy! As walking-stick it serves the dandy, Or else for beating clothes they find it handy.
Give me a mask, I’ll join the masquerade As country clown, so that the rabble rot Who in their proud disguises strut about May not suppose me one of their vile trade. Give me low manners, words on purpose made To show vulgarity beyond all doubt; All sparks of spirit I’ll with care put out Wherewith dull fools coquet in accents staid. So will I dance then at the great mask’d ball, By German knights, monks, kings surrounded too, By Harlequin saluted, known to few. With wooden swords they’ll strike me, one and all. That is the joke. For if I show my face, The rascals will be silenced in disgrace.
I laugh at all the fools who at me gape, And whom with prying goat-like face I see; I laugh at every fox who knavishly And idly snuffs me like a very grape; I laugh at every vain pretentious ape, Who a proud judge of genius claims to be; I laugh at all the knaves who threaten me With poisonous weapons whence there’s no escape. For when the charming fancies joy once gave Are wrested from us by the hands of fate, And at our feet in thousand atoms cast, And when our very heart is torn at last, All torn and cut and pierced and desolate, A fine shrill laugh we still have power to save.