Melancholy, pull out your sweet beak now;

don’t batten your fasting on my wheat of light.

Melancholy, enough! As your daggers drink

the blood my blue leech would suck out!

Do not finish off the fallen woman’s manna;

I want some cross to be born of it tomorrow,

tomorrow when I will have no one to turn my eyes to,

when the coffin opens its great sneering O.

My heart is a potsherd sprinkled with gall;

there are other old birds who graze inside it …

Melancholy, stop drying up my life,

and bare your woman’s lip …!