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Oh. Love! of whom great Cæsar was the suitor, 'Stop! So I stopp'd.-But to return: that
Titus the master, Antony the slave;
Men call inconstancy is nothing more [which

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Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling,
For surely if we always could perceive
In the same object graces quite as killing

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, [ling

Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, And darkness and destruction as on high: But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,

Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to

tears,

Which make the English climate of our years.

CCXV.

The liver is the lazaret of bile,

But very rarely executes its function; For the first passion stays there such a while, That all the rest creep in and form a junction, Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunc tion,

So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd 'central.'

CCXVI.

"Twould save us many a heartache, many a shil-In the meantime, without proceeding more

(For we must get them anyhow, or grieve); Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, How pleasant for the heart as well as liver!

CCXIV.

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, But changes night and day, too, like the sky

In this anatomy, I've finish'd now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,

That being about the number I'll allow
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ;

And laying down my pen, I make my bow, Leaving Don Juan and Haidée to plead :| For them and theirs with all who deign to read.

1.

CANTO THE THIRD.
1821.

HAIL, Muse! et cetera.-We left Juan sleeping,
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, [ing.
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weep-
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping,
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years,
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears!

11.

Oh, Love what is it, in this world of ours, Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah! why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers,

And made thy best interpreter a sigh? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast-but place to die

Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish, Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

III.

In her first passion, woman loves her lover; In all the others all she loves is love,

Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over,
And fits her loosely-like an easy glove,
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her.
One man alone at first her heart can move;
She then prefers him in the plural number,
Not finding that the additions much encumber.
IV.

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ;
But one thing's pretty sure: a woman
planted-

Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers)After a decent time must be gallanted: Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted: Yet there are some, they say, who have had

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Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavour,
Down to a very homely household savour.

VI.

There's something of antipathy, as 'twere,
Between their present and their future state;
A kind of flattery that's hardly fair

Is used until the truth arrives too late-
Yet what can people do, except despair?

The same things change their names at such
a rate;

For instance-passion in a lover's glorious,
But in a husband is pronounced uxorious.

VII.

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond;
They sometimes also get a little tired

(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond:

The same things cannot always be admired, Yet 'tis 'so nominated in the bond,'

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Yet they were happy-happy in the illicit
Indulgence of their innocent desires;
But more imprudent grown with every visit,
Haidée forgot the island was her sire's ;

That both are tied till one shall have expired. Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was adorn-When we have what we like, 'tis hard to miss it, ing

Our days, and put one's servants into mourning.

VIII.

There's doubtless something in domestic doings,
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis;
Romances paints at full length people's wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages:
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,

There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss.
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?

IX.

All tragedies are finish'd by a death;

All comedies are ended by a marriage: The future states of both are left to faith,

For authors fear description might disparage The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, And then both worlds would punish their miscarriage; [ready, So leaving each their priest and prayer-book They say no more of Death or of the Lady.

X.

The only two that in my recollection

Thus she came often, not a moment losing,
At least in the beginning, ere one tires:
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising.

XIV.

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange,
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation;
For into a prime minister but change

His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation;
But he, more modest, took a humbler range
Of life, and in an honester vocation
Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey,
And merely practised as a sea-attorney.

XV.

The good old gentleman had been detain'd
By winds and waves, and some important
captures;

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd,
Although a squall or two had damp'd his
raptures,

By swamping one of the prizes; he had chain'd
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters,
In number'd lots: they all had cuffs and collars;
And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars.
[are
XVI.

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, Dante and Milton,† and of both the affection Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve [mar); Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.

XI.

Some persons say that Dante meant theology
By Beatrice, and not a mistress-I,

⚫ Dante calls his wife, in the Inferno, 'La fiera moglie.' Milton's first wife ran away from him within the first month. If she had not, what would John Milton have done?

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan,

Among his friends the Mainots: some he sold
To his Tunis correspondents, save one man

Toss'd overboard, unsaleable (being old);
The rest-save here and there some richer one,
Reserved for future ransom-in the hold,
Were link'd alike; as for the common people, he
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli.

XVII.

The merchandise was served in the same way,
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant,
Except some certain portions of the prey,
Light classic articles of female want,

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, Guitars and castanets from Alicant, [tray, All which selected from the spoil he gathers, Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers.

XVIII.

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches

And that his Argus bites him by-the breeches.

XXIV.

If single, probably his plighted fair

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw,
Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens,But all the better, for the happy pair

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser;

He chose from several animals he saw

A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, [pittance; The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a These to secure in this strong blowing weather, He caged in one huge hamper all together.

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May quarrel, and, the lady growing wiser, He may resume his amatory care

As cavalier servente, or despise her; And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman.

XXV.

And oh! ye gentlemen who have already
Some chaste liaison of the kind-I mean
An honest friendship with a married lady-
The only thing of this sort ever seen
To last-of all connections the most steady,

And the true Hymen (the first's but a screen)-
Yet, for all that, keep not too long away,
I've known the absent wrong'd four times a day.

XXVI.

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion Of the true reason of his not being sad,

Or that of any other strong emotion; He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of her,

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher.

XXVII.

He saw his white walls shining in the sun,

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run,
His garden trees all shadowy and green;
The distant dog-bark; and perceived, between
The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun,

Of arms (in the East all arm)-and various dyes
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen
Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies.

XXVIII.

And as the spot where they appear he nears,
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling,
He hears-alas! no music of the spheres,
But an unhallow'd earthly sound of fiddling!
A melody which made him doubt his ears,
The cause being past his guessing or un-
riddling;

A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after,
A most unoriental roar of laughter.

XXIX.

And still more nearly to the place advancing, Descending rather quickly the declivity, Through the waved branches, o'er the green sward glancing,

'Midst other indications of festivity,

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing

Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he

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