Diane Hine - Friedrich's 1730 Soliloquy lyrics

My son, the ingrate, all puffed to aerate a flute! Inside his limp weight resides some innate soft fruit. Damp sophisticates always break in state disputes. So... to stimulate his mettle, his hate, his ‘brute'? Hmm...decapitate his scheming soul mate will suit! Anger militates, and how else win great repute?