If only from the Devil they would insure us, How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), "Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.1 CCVIII. But Juan had he quite forgotten Julia? Else how the devil is it that fresh features CCIX. I hate inconstancy-I loathe, detest, Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made CCX. But soon Philosophy came to my aid, And whispered, "Think of every sacred tie!" "I will, my dear Philosophy!" I said, "But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye! I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, Or neither-out of curiosity." "Stop!" cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, CCXI. "Stop!" so I stopped.-But to return: that which 1. [Compare Sardanapalus, act i. sc. 2, line 252, Poetical Works, 1901, V. 23, note 1.] Some favoured object; and as in the niche CCXII. 'T is the perception of the Beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which Life would be extremely dull; In short, it is the use of our own eyes, With one or two small senses added, just To hint that flesh is formed of fiery dust. CCXIII. Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, CCXIV. The Heart is like the sky, a part of Heaven, CCXV. The liver is the lazaret of bile, But very rarely executes its function, i. — of ticklish dust.—[MS. Alternative reading.] Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil-1 Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail, Like Earthquakes from the hidden fire called "central." CCXVI. In the mean time, without proceeding more That being about the number I'll allow i. Two hundred stanzas reckoned as before.-[MS.] 1. ["Mr. Hobhouse is at it again about indelicacy. There is no indelicacy. If he wants that, let him read Swift, his great idol; but his imagination must be a dunghill, with a viper's nest in the middle, to engender such a supposition about this poem."-Letter to Murray, May 15, 1819, Letters, 1900, iv. 295.] CANTO THE THIRD.' I. HAIL, Muse! et cetera.-We left Juan sleeping, And watched by eyes that never yet knew weeping, II. 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, 1. [November 30, 1819. Copied in 1820 (MS. D.). Moore (Life, 421) says that Byron was at work on the third canto when he stayed with him at Venice, in October, 1819. "One day, before dinner, [he] read me two or three hundred lines of it; beginning with the stanzas "Oh Wellington," etc., which, at the time, formed the opening of the third canto, but were afterwards reserved for the commencement of the ninth." The third canto, as it now stands, was completed by November 8, 1819; see Letters, 1900, iv. 375. The date on the MS. may refer to the first fair copy.] L Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 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 none, But those who have ne'er end with only one.1 V. 'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign Of human frailty, folly, also crime, VI. There's something of antipathy, as 't were, 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. i. And fits her like a stocking or a glove.—[MS. D.] 1. [On peut trouver des femmes qui n'ont jamais eu de galanterie, mais il est rare d'en trouver qui n'en aient jamais eu qu'une."-Réflexions ... du Duc de la Rochefoucauld, No. Ixxiii. Byron prefixed the maxim as a motto to his "Ode to a Lady whose Lover was killed by a Ball, which at the same time shivered a Portrait next his Heart."-Poetical Works, 1901, iv. 552.] |