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 ?