LXIV. Happy the nations of the moral north! Where all is virtue, and the winter season Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth; (Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason); Where juries cast up what a wife is worth By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on The lover, who must pay a handsome price, Because it is a marketable vice. LXV. Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, A man well looking for his years, and who Was neither much beloved, nor yet abhorr'd; They lived together as most people do, Suffering each other's foibles by accord, And not exactly either one or two; Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, LXVI. Julia was yet I never could see why- LXVII. And that still keeping up the old connexion, Which time had lately render'd much more chaste, She took his lady also in affection, And certainly this course was much the best: She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; LXVIII. I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown; Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, Indifferent from the first, or callous grown: I'm really puzzled what to think or say, LXIX. Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three, These few short years make wondrous alterations, Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. LXX. Whate'er the cause might be, they had become Changed; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, And much embarrassment in either eye; There surely will be little doubt with some But as for Juan, he had no more notion LXXI. Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 'Twas but a doubt; but ne'er magician's wand Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. LXXII. And if she met him, though she smiled no more, She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store She must not own, but cherish'd more the while, For that compression in its burning core; And will not dare to trust itself with truth, LXXIII. But passion most dissembles yet betrays Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Are masks it often wears, and still too late. |