XVIII. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something more; With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; Seen beauties brought to market by the score; Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming; There's litte left but to be bored or bore. Witness those « ci-devant jeunes hommes » who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. XIX.

T is said indeed a general complaint

That no one has succeeded in describing The monde exactly as they ought to paint.

Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, To furnish matter for their moral gibing; And that their books have but one style in commonMy lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman.

XX.

But this can't well be true, just now; for writers

Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, Especially when young, for that 's essential. Why do their sketches fail them as inditers

Of, what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe?

T is that, in fact, there's little to describe.

XXI.

«Haud ignara loquor:» these are nugæ, « quarum Pars parva fui,» but still art and part.

Now I could much more easily sketch a harem,
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart,
Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 'em,
For reasons which I chuse to keep apart.

« Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit,»
Which means, that vulgar people must not share it.
XXII.

And therefore what I throw off is ideal

Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of Freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real,

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all; My music has some mystic diapasons; And there is much which could not be appreciated In any manner by the uninitiated.

XXIII.

Alas! worlds fall-and woman, since she fell'd
The world (as, since that history, less polite
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held),
Has not yet given up the practice quite.
Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd,

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemn'd to child-bed, as men, for their sins, Have shaving too entailed upon their chins,

XXIV.

A daily plague which, in the aggregate,

May average on the whole with parturition. But as to women, who can penetrate

The real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.

XXV.

All this were very well, and can't be better;
But even this is difficult, Heaven knows!
So many troubles from her birth beset her,
Such small distinction between friends and foes!
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter,
That--but ask any woman if she'd chuse
(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been
Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen?

XXVI.

«Petticoat influence » is a great reproach,

Which even those who obey would fain be thought To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach; But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, I for one venerate a petticoatA garment of a mystical sublimity, No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. XXVII.

Much I respect, and much I have adored,

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil,
Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard,
And more attracts by all it doth conceal-
A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword,
A loving letter with a mystic seal,
A cure for grief-for what can ever rankle
Before a petticoat and peeping ancle?

XXVIII.

And when upon a silent, sullen day

With a sirocco, for example, blowing,—
When even the sea looks dim with all its spray,
And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing,
And the sky shows that very ancient grey,
The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,—
'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant,
To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant.
XXIX.

We left our heroes and our heroines

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs,

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines, Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at,

Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun—
Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one.

XXX.

And in-door life is less poetical;

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and sleet, With which I could not brew a pastoral.

But be it as it may, a bard must meet
All difficulties, whether great or small,
To spoil his undertaking or complete,
And work away like spirit upon matter,
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water.

XXXI.

Juan-in this respect at least like saints-
Was all things unto people of all sorts,

And lived contentedly, without complaints,
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts—
Born with that happy soul which seldom faints,
And mingling modestly in toils or sports.
He likewise could be most things to all women,
Without the coxcombry of certain she-men.

The Nestors of the sporting generation,

Swore praises, and recall'd their former fires;
The huntsman's self relented to a grin,
And rated him almost a whipper-in.
XXXV.

Such were his trophies;-not of spear and shield,
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes;
Yet I must own,-although in this I yield

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes,—
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield,

Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Ask'd, next day, «if men ever hunted twice ?» XXXVI.

He also had a quality uncommon

To early risers after a long chase,

Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon
December's drowsy day to his dull race,-

A quality agreeable to woman,

When her soft liquid words run on apace, Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,He did not fall asleep just after dinner.

XXXVII.

But, light and airy, stood on the alert,

And shone in the best part of dialogue, By humouring always what they might assert, And listening to the topics most in vogue: Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert; And smiling but in secret-cunoing rogue! He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer; In short, there never was a better hearer.

XXXVIII.

And then he danced;-all foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of pantomime,-he danced, I say, right well,
With emphasis, and also with good sense-

A thing in footing indispensable:

He danced without theatrical pretence,

Not like a ballet-master in the van

Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.

XXXIX.

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground,
And rather held in than put forth his vigour :
And then he had an ear for music's sound,

Which might defy a crotchet-critic's rigour.
Such classic pas-sans flaws-set off our hero,
He glanced like a personified bolero;

XL.

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora,

In Guido's famous fresco, which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. The « tout ensemble» of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And ne'er to be described; for, to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. XLI.

No marvel then he was a favourite;

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired;
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite;
At least he kept his vanity retired,
Such was his tact, he could alike delight

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved « tracasserie,⟫ Began to treat him with some small << agacerie.»>

XLII.

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde,
Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated

For several winters in the grand, grand monde.
I'd rather not say what might be related
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground;
Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated:
Her late performance had been a dead set
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.

XLIII.

This noble personage began to look

A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licenses must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke! 'T will but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on woman.

XLIV.

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd;
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd;
Some would not deem such women could be found;
Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard;
Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound;
And several pitied with sincere regret
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
XLV.

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke,

Who, one might think, was something in the affair. True, he was absent, and, 't was rumour'd, took

But small concern about the when, or where,
Or what his consort did: if he could brook
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare:
Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt,
Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out.

XLVI.

But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line!
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she,
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline,

Began to think the duchess' conduct free; Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, And, waxing chiller in her courtesy,

Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility,
For which most friends reserve their sensibility.
XLVII.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy:
'T is so becoming to the soul and face;
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
Without a friend, what were humanity,

To hunt our errors up with a good grace? Consoling us with-« Would you had thought twice! Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!»

XLVIII.

Oh, Job! you had two friends: one 's quite enough,
Especially when we are ill at ease;
They're but bad pilots when the weather 's rough,
Doctors less famous for their cures than fees.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off,

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze :
When affairs come round, one way or t' other,
your
Go to the coffee-house, and take another.'

XLIX.

But this is not my maxim : had it been,

Some heart-aches had been spared me; yet I care not— I would not be a tortoise in his screen

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear not. T is better on the whole to have felt and seen That which humanity may bear, or bear not: 'T will teach discernment to the sensitive, And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. L.

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,

Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, «I told you so,»

Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, 'stead of saying what yon now should do,

Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, And solace your slight lapse 'gainst «bonos mores,» With a long memorandum of old stories.

LI.

The Lady Adeline's serene severity

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity, Unless her habits should begin to mend; But Juan also shared in her austerity,

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd:

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth,
And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth.

LII.

These forty days' advantage of her years-
And hers were those which can face calculation,
Boldly referring to the list of peers,

And noble births, nor dread the enumeration

Gave her a right to have maternal fears

For a young gentleman's fit education,

Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, In female dates, strikes time all of a heap.

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing winters,

Admired, adored; but also so correct,
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters,
Without the apparel of being circumspect;
They could not even glean the slightest splinters
From off the marble, which had no defect.
She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage
To bear a son and heir-and one miscarriage.
LVII.

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her,
Those little glitterers of the London night;
But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her-
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight.
Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder;

But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right;
And whether colduess, pride, or virtue, dignify
A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify?
LVIII.

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle,

Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, Especially with politics on hand;

I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,

Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand;

I hate it, as I hate an argument,

A laureate's ode, or servile peer's « content.»>

LIX.

T is sad to hack into the roots of things,
They are so much intertwisted with the earth:
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth.
To trace all actions to their secret springs
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth:
But this is not at present my concern,
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 3

LX.
With the kind view of saving an éclât,
Both to the duchess and diplomatist,
The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw

That Juan was unlikely to resist-
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas

In England ranks quite on a different list
From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries,
Whose verdict for such sin a perfect cure is)—
LXI.

The Lady Adeline resolved to take

Such measures as she thought might best impede
The further progress of this sad mistake.

She thought with some simplicity indeed;
But innocence is bold even at the stake,

And simple in the world, and doth not need
Nor use those palisades by dames erected,
Whose virtue lies in never being detected.
LXII.

It was not that she fear'd the very worst:
His grace was an enduring, married man,
And was not likely all at once to burst

Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan
Of Doctors' Commons; but she dreaded first
The magic of her grace's talisman,
And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret)
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
LXIII.

Her grace too pass'd for being an intrigante,

And somewhat méchante in her amorous sphere; One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt A lover with caprices soft and dear, That like to make a quarrel, when they can't

Find one, each day of the delightful year;
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow,
And-what is worst of all-won't let you go:
LXIV.

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head,
Or make a Werter of him in the end.
No wonder then a purer soul should dread
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend;
It were much better to be wed or dead,

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend.
'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rush on,
If that a « bonne fortune» be really « bonne.»
LXV.

And first, in the o'erflowing of her heart,

Which really knew or thought it knew no guile,
She call'd her husband now and then apart,

And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile
Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile;
And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet,
In such guise that she could make nothing of it.
LXVI.

Firstly, he said, «he never interfered

In any body's business but the king's:»
Next, « that he never judged from what appear'd,
Without strong reason, of those sorts of things:»
Thirdly, that «Juan had more brain than beard,
And was not to be held in leading-strings;»
And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice,
<< That good but rarely came from good advice.»

LXVII.

And, therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse
To leave the parties to themselves forsooth,
At least as far as bienséance allows:
That time would temper Juan's faults of youth;
That young men rarely made monastic vows;
That opposition only more attaches--
But here a messenger brought in dispatches:
LXVIII.

And being of the council call'd « the privy,»
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet,
To furnish matter for some future Livy

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt;
And if their full contents I do not give ye,

It is because I do not know them yet, But I shall add them in a brief appendix, To come between my epic and its index.

LXIX.

But ere he went, he added a slight hint,
Another gentle common-place or two,
Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint,

And pass, for want of better, though not new:
Then, broke his packet, to see what was in 't,
And having casually glanced it through,
Retired; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her,
Less like a young wife than an aged sister.
LXX.

He was a cold, good, honourable man,

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing: A goodly spirit for a state divan,

A figure fit to walk before a king;

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van

On birth-days, glorious with a star and string; The very model of a chamberlainAnd such I mean to make him when I reign.

LXXI.

But there was something wanting on the whole-
I dont know what, and therefore cannot tell-
Which pretty women-the sweet souls!-call soul.
Certes it was not body; he was well
Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole,

A handsome man, that human miracle;
And in each circumstance of love or war
Had still preserv'd his perpendicular.

LXXII.

Still there was something wanting, as I've said-
That undefinable « je ne sais quoi,»
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led
To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed;
Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy
Was much inferior to King Menelaus,-
But thus it is some women will betray us.

LXXIII.

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved

By turns the difference of the several sexes:

Neither can show quite how they would be loved. The sensual for a short time but connects usThe sentimental boasts to be unmoved; But both together form a kind of centaur, Upon whose back 't is better not to venture.