The World’s Tragedy

I04 THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. MAGDA Thou empty bottle of brass of Bethlehem ! John, come and loose this surly saviour’s phlegm ! John descends a rickety ladder from a loft. Magda spits, and goes out. JOHN Hail, master, let me soothe thy time of teen ! ISSA Wine rots the liver ; fever swells the spleen ; Meat clogs the belly ; dusts inflames the eye : Stone irks the bladder ; gout — plague — leprosy ! Man born of woman is most full of trouble ; God a gorged fool that belches him, a bubble ! — But of all plagues wherewith a man is cursed, Take my word for it, woman is the worst ! JOHN Maybe, dear Lord, of all the words men say Of thine, that one shall never pass away. But what hath the wench done ?