FALK.
O ja, – jeg véd, der drives jo et døgn-
koketteri med huslighedens tanke;
det er et rodskud af den store løgn,
der gror i højden, lig en humleranke.
Jeg tar ærbødig hatten af, min frue,
for „balheltinden“; hun er skønhedsbarn, –
og idealet spænder gyldne garn
i ballets sal, men knapt i ammens stue.
FALK.
O yes, I know the pretty coquetry
They carry on with “Domesticity.”
It is a suckling of the mighty Lie
That, like hop-tendrils, spreads itself on high.
I, madam, reverently bare my head
To the ball queen; a child of beauty she--
And the ideal’s golden woof is spread
In ball-rooms, hardly in the nursery.
