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A lady with apologies abounds ;-
It might be that her silence sprang
From delicacy to Don Juan's ear,

alone

The passage you so often have explored

Here is the garden-key. Fly-fly-Adieu ! Haste-haste! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. Day has not broke there's no one in the street.

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A pair of shoes!-what then? not much, if they
Are such as fit with ladies' feet; but these
(No one can tell how much I grieve to say)
Were masculine: to see them, and to seize,

CLXXXVI.

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe.

And Juan throttled him to get away,
And blood ('twas from the nose) began to ficw.
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay.
Juan contrived to give an awkward blow,

And then his only garment quite gave way
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there,
I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair.

CLXXXVII.

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, found

An awkward spectacle their eyes before: Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd,

Alfonso leaning breathless by the door: Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the groun Some blood and several footsteps, but

more;

Was but a moment's act.-Ah! well-a-day!
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze-Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the kev about,

Alfonso first examined well their fashion,
And then flew out into another passion.

CLXXXII.

He left the room for his relinquish'd sword,
And Julia instant to the closet flew.
Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake—not a word—
The door is open-you may yet slip through

And liking not the inside, lock'd the out.

CLXXXVIII.

Here ends this canto. Need I sing, or av,
How Juan naked, favour'd by the night
Who favours what she should not, found he
way,

And reach'd his home in an unseemly pl

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With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reignNew characters; the episodes are three: [ing, A panoramic view of hell's in training, After the style of Virgil and of Homer, So that my name of epic's no misnomer.

CCI.

All these things will be specified in time,
With strict regard to Aristotle's rules,
The Vade Mecum of the true sublime,

Which makes so many poets and some fools:
Prose poets like blank verse, I'm fond of rhyme,
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools;
I've got new mythological machinery,
And very handsome supernatural scenery.

CCII.

There's only one slight difference between Me and my epic brethren gone before; And here the advantage is my own, I ween (Not that I have not several merits more, But this will more peculiarly be seen):

They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, Whereas this story's actually true.

CCIII.

If any person doubt it, I appeal

To history, tradition, and to facts, To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, To plays in five, and operas in three, acts; All these confirm my statement a good deal, But that which more completely faith exacts Is that myself, and several now in Seville, Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil.

CCIV.

If ever I should condescend to prose,

I'll write poetical commandments, which Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those

That went before; in these I shall enrich My text with many things that no one knows, And carry precept to the highest pitch: I'll call the work Longinus o'er a Bottle; Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle.'

CCV.

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey;

Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthey:

With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope,

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy:

Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit-flirtation with the muse of Moore.

CCVI.

Thou shalt not covet Mr Sotheby's muse, His Pegasus, nor anything that's his;

Thou shalt not bear false witness like 'the Blues'

(There's one, at least, is very fond of this: Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose: This is true criticism, and you may kissExactly as you please, or not-the rod : But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G-d!

CCVII.

If any person should presume to assert
This story is not moral, first, I pray
That they will not cry out before they're hurt,
Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say
(But doubtless nobody will be so pert)

That this is not a moral tale, though gay; Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show The very place where wicked people go.

CCVIII.

If, after all, there should be some so blind To their own good, this warning to despise, Led by some tortuosity of mind,

Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, And cry that they the moral cannot find. I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; Should captains the remark, or critics, make, They also lie, too-under a mistake.

CCIX.

The public approbation I expect,

And beg they'll take my word about the moral, Which I with their amusement will connect (So children cutting teeth receive a corail, Meantime they'll doubtless please to recolect My epical pretensions to the laurel ; For fear some prudish readers should grow sk." I've bribed my grandmother's review-itBritish.

CCX.

I sent it in a letter to the Editor,

Who thank'd me duly by return of postI'm for a handsome article his creditor;

Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, And break a promise after having made it net. Denying the receipt of what it cost, And smear his page with gall instead of honey, All I can say is that he had the money.

CCXI.

I think that, with this holy new alliance,
I may ensure the public, and defy

All other magazines of art or science,

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly; I Have not essay'd to multiply their clients.

Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try, And that the Edinburgh Review and Quartri Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. CCXII.

'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa

Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so Say I; by which quotation there is meant a Hint that, some six or seven good years ago

(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta),Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, I was most ready to return a blow, Time is, Time was, Time's past;'-a chymic And would not brook at all this sort of thing In my hot youth-when George the Third was king.

CCXIII.

But now, at thirty years, my hair is grey-
(I wonder what it will be like at forty?
I thought of a peruke the other day)—

My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I
Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas
May,

And feel no more the spirit to retort: I
Hive spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.

CCXIV.

No more-no more-Oh never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see

Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:
Think'st thou the honey with those objects
grew ?

Alas! 'twas not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower.

CCXV.

No more no more-Oh! never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse :
The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art

Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,
And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment,
Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodg-

ment.

CCXVI.

My days of love are over; me no more*

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of
widow,

Can make the fool of which they made before:
In short, I must not lead the life I did do;
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,
The copious use of claret is forbid, too:
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.

CCXVII.

Ambition was my idol, which was broken
Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure;
And the two last have left me many a token,
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:

Me nec femina, nec puer
Jam, nec spes animi credula mutui,
Nec certare juvat mero;
Nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

treasure

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes-
My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

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