And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. There was the Duke - TopicsExpress

And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. There was the Duke of Dash, who was a- duke, Ay, every inch a duke; there were twelve peers Like Charlemagnes- and all such peers in look And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears For commoners had ever them mistook. There were the six Miss Rawbolds- pretty dears! All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set Less on a convent than a coronet. There were four Honourable Misters, whose Honour was more before their names than after; There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, Whom France and Fortune lately deignd to waft here, Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because- such was his magic power to please- The dice seemd charmd, too, with his repartees. There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner; And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, Good at all things, but better at a bet. There was jack jargon, the gigantic guardsman; And General Fireface, famous in the field, A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he killd. There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hardsman, In his grave office so completely skilld, That when a culprit came far condemnation, He had his judges joke for consolation. Good company s a chess-board- there are kings, Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world s a game; Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, Alighting rarely:- were she but a hornet, Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. I had forgotten- but must not forget- An orator, the latest of the session, Who had deliverd well a very set Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression Upon debate: the papers echoed yet With his debut, which made a strong impression, And rankd with what is every day displayd- The best first speech that ever yet was made. Proud of his Hear hims! proud, too, of his vote And lost virginity of oratory, Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), He revelld in his Ciceronian glory: With memory excellent to get by rote, With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, His countrys pride, he came down to the country. There also were two wits by acclamation, Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed, Both lawyers and both men of education; But Strongbows wit was of more polishd breed: Longbow was rich in an imagination As beautiful and bounding as a steed, But sometimes stumbling over a potato,- While Strongbows best things might have come from Cato. Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; But Longbow wild as an AEolian harp, With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, And make a music, whether flat or sharp. Of Strongbows talk you would not change a word: At Longbows phrases you might sometimes carp: Both wits- one born so, and the other bred- This by his heart, his rival by his head. If all these seem a heterogeneous mas To be assembled at a country seat, Yet think, a specimen of every class Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. The days of Comedy are gone, alas! When Congreves fool could vie with Molieres bete: Society is smoothd to that excess, That manners hardly differ more than dress. Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground- Ridiculous enough, but also dull; Professions, too, are no more to be found Professional; and there is nought to cull Of follys fruit; for though your fools abound, Theyre barren, and not worth the pains to pull. Society is now one polishd horde, Formd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning The scanty but right-well threshd ears of truth; And, gentle reader! when you gather meaning, You may be Boaz, and I- modest Ruth. Farther I d quote, but Scripture intervening Forbids. it great impression in my youth Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies. But what we can we glean in this vile age Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. I must not quite omit the talking sage, Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, Who, in his common-place book, had a page Prepared each morn for evenings. List, oh, list!- Alas, poor ghost!- What unexpected woes Await those who have studied their bon-mots! Firstly, they must allure the conversation By many windings to their clever clinch; And secondly, must let slip no occasion, Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, But take an ell- and make a great sensation, If possible; and thirdly, never flinch When some smart talker puts them to the test, But seize the last word, which no doubt s the best. Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; The party we have touchd on were the guests: Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man- the hungry sinner!- Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. Witness the lands which flowd with milk and honey, Held out unto the hungry Israelites; To this we have added since, the love of money, The only sort of pleasure which requites. Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny; We tire of mistresses and parasites; But oh, ambrosial cash! Ah! who would lose thee? When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot, Or hunt: the young, because they liked the sport- The first thing boys like after play and fruit; The middle-aged to make the day more short; For ennui is a growth of English root, Though nameless in our language:- we retort The fact for words, and let the French translate That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. The elderly walkd through the library, And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, Or saunterd through the gardens piteously, And made upon the hot-house several strictures, Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, Or on the morning papers read their lectures, Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, Longing at sixty for the hour of six. But none were gene: the great hour of union Was rung by dinners knell; till then all were Masters of their own time- or in communion, Or solitary, as they chose to bear The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. Each rose up at his own, and had to spare What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast When, where, and how he chose for that repast. The ladies- some rouged, some a little pale- Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, Or walkd; if foul, they read, or told a tale, Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; Discussd the fashion which might next prevail, And settled bonnets by the newest code, Or crammd twelve sheets into one little letter, To make each correspondent a new debtor. For some had absent lovers, all had friends. The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven- because it never ends. I love the mystery of a female missal, Which, like a creed, neer says all it intends, But full of cunning as Ulysses whistle, When he allured poor Dolon:- you had better Take care what you reply to such a letter. Then there were billiards; cards, too, but no dice;- Save in the clubs no man of honour plays;- Boats when t was water, skating when t was ice, And the hard frost destroyd the scenting days: And angling, too, that solitary vice, Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says; The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. With evening came the banquet and the wine; The conversazione; the duet, Attuned by voices more or less divine (My heart or head aches with the memory yet). The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine; But the two youngest loved more to be set Down to the harp- because to musics charms They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, For then the gentlemen were rather tired) Displayd some sylph-like figures in its maze; Then there was small-talk ready when required; Flirtation- but decorous; the mere praise Of charms that should or should not be admired. The hunters fought their fox-hunt oer again, And then retreated soberly- at ten. The politicians, in a nook apart, Discussd the world, and settled all the spheres; The wits watchd every loophole for their art, To introduce a bon-mot head and ears; Small is the rest of those who would be smart, A moments good thing may have cost them years Before they find an hour to introduce it; And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. But all was gentle and aristocratic In this our party; polishd, smooth, and cold, As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. There now are no Squire Westerns as of old; And our Sophias are not so emphatic, But fair as then, or fairer to behold. We have no accomplishd blackguards, like Tom Jones, But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. They separated at an early hour; That is, ere midnight- which is Londons noon: But in the country ladies seek their bower A little earlier than the waning moon. Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower- May the rose call back its true colour soon! Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, And lower the price of rouge- at least some winters. CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. IF from great natures or our own abyss Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss- But then t would spoil much good philosophy. One system eats another up, and this Much as old Saturn ate his progeny; For when his pious consort gave him stones In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. But System doth reverse the Titans breakfast, And eats her parents, albeit the digestion Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, After due search, your faith to any question? Look back oer ages, ere unto the stake fast You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. Nothing more true than not to trust your senses; And yet what are your other evidences? For me, I know nought; nothing I deny, Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you, Except perhaps that you were born to die? And both may after all turn out untrue. An age may come, Font of Eternity, When nothing shall be either old or new. Death, so calld, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passd in sleep. A sleep without dreams, after a rough day Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt At once without instalments (an old way Of paying debts, which creditors regret) Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, Less from disgust of life than dread of death. T is round him, near him, here, there, every where; And there s a courage which grows out of fear, Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare The worst to know it:- when the mountains rear Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there You look down oer the precipice, and drear The gulf of rock yawns,- you cant gaze a minute Without an awful wish to plunge within it. T is true, you dont- but, pale and struck with terror, Retire: but look into your past impression! And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession, The lurking bias, be it truth or error, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears- but where? You know not, And thats the reason why you do- or do not. But what s this to the purpose? you will say. Gent. reader, nothing; a mere speculation, For which my sole excuse is- t is my way; Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion I write what s uppermost, without delay: This narrative is not meant for narration, But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places. You know, or dont know, that great Bacon saith, Fling up a straw, t will show the way the wind blows; And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies twixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine s a bubble, not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays. The world is all before me- or behind; For I have seen a portion of that same, And quite enough for me to keep in mind;- Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; For I was rather famous in my time, Until I fairly knockd it up with rhyme. I have brought this world about my ears, and eke The other; that s to say, the clergy, who Upon my head have bid their thunders break In pious libels by no means a few. And yet I cant help scribbling once a week, Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. In youth I wrote because my mind was full, And now because I feel it growing dull. But why then publish?- There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn,- Why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read?- To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I ve seen or ponderd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink- I have had at least my dream. I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I ve battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling t is not easy to express, And yet t is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing- The one is winning, and the other losing. Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: She gathers a repertory of facts, Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, But mostly sings of human things and acts- And that s one cause she meets with contradiction; For too much truth, at first sight, neer attracts; And were her object only what s calld glory, With more ease too she d tell a different story. Love, war, a tempest- surely there s variety; Also a seasoning slight of lucubration; A birds-eye view, too, of that wild, Society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here s at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. The portion of this world which I at present Have taken up to fill the following sermon, Is one of which there s no description recent. The reason why is easy to determine: Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, A dull and family likeness through all ages, Of no great promise for poetic pages. With much to excite, there s little to exalt; Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; A sort of varnish over every fault; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; Factitious passions, wit without much salt, A want of that true nature which sublimes Whateer it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any. Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight you have had your fill, It palls- at least it did so upon me, This paradise of pleasure and ennui. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, Drest, 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 little left but to be bored or bore. Witness those ci-devant jeunes hommes who stem The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 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 common- My ladys prattle, filterd through her woman. But this cant 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. Haud ignara loquor; these are Nugae, 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 choose to keep apart. Vetabo Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit- Which means that vulgar people must not share it. And therefore what I throw off is ideal- Lowerd, leavend, like a history of freemasons; Which bears the same relation to the real, As Captain Parrys voyage may do to Jasons. 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. Alas! worlds fall- and woman, since she felld 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, compelld, Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, Condemnd to child-bed, as men for their sins Have shaving too entaild upon their chins,- 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? Mans 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. All this were very well, and cant 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 shed choose (Take her at thirty, that is) to have been Female or male? a schoolboy or a queen? 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 lifes hackney coach, I for one venerate a petticoat- A garment of a mystical sublimity, No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. Much I respect, and much I have adored, In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, Which holds a treasure, like a misers 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 ankle? 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 rivers ripple s flowing, And the sky shows that very ancient gray, The sober, sad antithesis to glowing,- T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. We left our heroes and our heroines In that fair clime which dont depend on climate, Quite independent of the Zodiacs 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 skys or tradesmans is all one. An 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, Embarrassd somewhat both with fire and water. 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. A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange; T is also subject to the double danger Of tumbling first, and having in exchange Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: But Juan had been early taught to range The wilds, as doth an Arab turnd avenger, So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, Knew that he had a rider on his back. And now in this new field, with some applause, He cleard hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, And never craned, and made but few faux pas, And only fretted when the scent gan fail. He broke, t is true, some statutes of the laws Of hunting- for the sagest youth is frail; Rode oer the hounds, it may be, now and then, And once oer several country gentlemen. But on the whole, to general admiration He acquitted both himself and horse: the squires Marvelld at merit of another nation; The boors cried Dang it? who d have thought it?- Sires, The Nestors of the sporting generation, Swore praises, and recalld their former fires; The huntsmans self relented to a grin, And rated him almost a whipper-in. 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 Britons blushes,- He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, Who, after a long chase oer hills, dales, bushes, And what not, though he rode beyond all price, Askd next day, If men ever hunted twice? He also had a quality uncommon To early risers after a long chase, Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon Decembers 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; 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- cunning rogue! He neer presumed to make an error clearer;- In short, there never was a better hearer. 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 drilld nymphs, but like a gentleman. Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, And elegance was sprinkled oer his figure; Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimmd the ground, And rather held in than put forth his vigour; And then he had an ear for musics sound, Which might defy a crotchet critics rigour. Such classic pas- sans flaws- set off our hero, He glanced like a personified Bolero; Or, like a flying Hour before Aurora, In Guidos famous fresco which alone Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a Remnant were there of the old worlds sole throne. The tout ensemble of his movements wore a Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, And neer to be described; for to the dolour Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. No marvel then he was a favourite; A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; A little spoilt, 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. She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguishd, 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. This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation; But such small licences 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. The circle smiled, then whisperd, and then sneerd; The Misses bridled, and the matrons frownd; Some hoped things might not turn out as they feard; Some would not deem such women could be found; Some neer believed one half of what they heard; Some lookd perplexd, and others lookd profound; And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 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 rumourd, 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 cant fall out. 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, Lookd grave and pale to see her friends fragility, For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 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 followd my advice! O job! you had two friends: one s quite enough, Especially when we are ill at ease; They are 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 your affairs come round, one way or t other, Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 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. Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, I told you so, Utterd by friends, those prophets of the past, Who, stead of saying what you 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. The Lady Adelines 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 mixd with pity, pure as eer was pennd: His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 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 gentlemans fit education, Though she was far from that leap year, whose leap, In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. This may be fixd at somewhere before thirty- Say seven-and-twenty; for I never knew The strictest in chronology and virtue Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. O Time! why dost not pause? Thy scythe, so dirty With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower, If but to keep thy credit as a mower. But Adeline was far from that ripe age, Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: T was rather her experience made her sage, For she had seen the world and stood its test, As I have said in- I forget what page; My Muse despises reference, as you have guessd By this time;- but strike six from seven-and-twenty, And you will find her sum of years in plenty. At sixteen she came out; presented, vaunted, She put all coronets into commotion: At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean: At eighteen, though below her feet still panted A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, She had consented to create again That Adam, calld The happiest of men. 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 snatchd a moment since her marriage To bear a son and heir- and one miscarriage. Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, Those little glitterers of the London night; But none of these possessd a sting to wound her- She was a pitch beyond a coxcombs flight. Perhaps she wishd an aspirant profounder; But whatsoeer she wishd, she acted right; And whether coldness, pride, or virtue dignify A woman, so she s good, what does it signify? I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle Which with the landlord makes too long a stand, Leaving all-claretless the unmoistend 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 laureates ode, or servile peers content. 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. With the kind view of saving an eclat, Both to the duchess and diplomatist, The Lady Adeline, as soon s she saw That Juan was unlikely to resist (For foreigners dont know that a faux pas In England ranks quite on a different list From those of other lands unblest with juries, Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is);- The Lady Adeline resolved to take Such measures as she thought might best impede The farther 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. It was not that she feard 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 Graces talisman, And next a quarrel (as he seemd to fret) With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. Her Grace, too, passd for being an intrigante, And somewhat mechante 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 cant Find one, each day of the delightful year; Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, And- what is worst of all- wont let you go: The sort of thing to turn a young mans 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. And first, in the oerflowing of her heart, Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, She calld 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 sirens wile; And answerd, like a statesman or a prophet, In such guise that she could make nothing of it. Firstly, he said, he never interfered In any bodys business but the kings: Next, that he never judged from what appeard, Without strong reason, of those sort 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. And, ther