Your husband is stern and you're adamant, Lyce,
Oh yes, there is not the least doubt of it.
But open the door, for the weather is icy;
Let me in out of it.
Oh, cruel you are to behold me, unweeping,
All huddled and drenched like a rabbit here;
Exposed to the pitiless snow and the sweeping
Winds that inhabit here.
The blast, like the sharpest of knives, cuts between us—
Ah, will you rejoice if I freeze to death?
Come, put off the pride that is hateful to Venus;
Come, ere I sneeze to death!
Your sire was a Tuscan—may Hercules club me
Or crush out my life like a mellow pea—
But who in Gehenna are you that you snub me?
You're no Penelope!
Forgive me. I know that I rail like a peasant,—
But, won't you be more than a friend to me?
Won't tears and my prayers—and the costliest present
Make you unbend to me?
Once more I implore; give my pleadings a fresh hold;
My soul in its torment still screams to you …
What? Think you I'll lie down and die on your threshold?
Good Night! And bad dreams to you!