The Parallel.

A poem by Friedrich Schiller

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

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