In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes;

At fifty, love for love is rare, 'tis true:
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is,
A good deal may be bought for fifty louis
CIX.

Julia had honour, virtue, truth, and love
For Don Alfonso; and she inly swore,
By all the vows below to powers above,

She never would disgrace the ring she wore,
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove;
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more,
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown,
Quite by mistake-she thought it was her own.

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of giris, the song of birds,
The lisp of children, and their earliest words.
CXXIV.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth:
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth;
Sweet is revenge-especially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
CXXV.

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet

The unexpected death of some old lady Or gentleman of seventy years complete, Who've made us youth' wait too-too long already

For an estate, or cash, or country seat,

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady,
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
Next owner for their double-danın'd post-obits.

CXXVI.

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 'tis sweet to put an end
To strife; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend:

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ;

Dear is the helpless creature we defend Against the world: and dear the schoolboy spot We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

CXXVII.

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate love-it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall:

The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd, all's
known-

And life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.
CXXVIII.

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use
Of his own nature, and the various arts,
And likes particularly to produce

Some new experiment to show his parts
This is the age of oddities let loose,

Where different talents find their different marts: You'd best begin with truth; and when you've lost your Labour, there's a sure market for imposture.

CXXIX.

What opposite discoveries we have seen!
(Signs of true genius and of empty pockets:}
One makes new noses, one a guillotine,

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets;

But vaccination certainly has been

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets

With which the doctor paid off an old pox, By borrowing a new one from an ox.

CXXX.

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes, And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus

Of the Humane Society's beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis:

What wondrous new machines have late bec spinning!

I said the small-pox has gone out of late,
Perhaps it may be followed by the great.

CXXXI.

'Tis said the great came from America: Perhaps it may set out on its return: The population there so spreads, they say, 'Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, With war, or plague, or famine, any way, So that civilization they may learn;

CXXXII.

This is the patent age of new inventions
For killing bodies, and for saving souls,
All propagated with the best intentions.

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals
Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions,
Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles,
Are ways to benefit mankind, as true,
Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo,

CXXXIII.

Man's a phenomenon, one knows not what,

And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure; 'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure; Few mortals know what end they would be at,

But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, The path is through perplexing ways; and when The goal is gain'd, we die, you know-and thenCXXXIV.

What then?-I do not know, no more do you-
And so good night. Return we to our story:
'Twas in November, when fine days are few,
And the far mountains wax a little hoary,
And clap a white cape on their mantles blue;
And the sea dashes round the promontory,
And the loud breaker boils against the rock,
And sober suns must set at five o'clock.

CXXXV.

'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night:
No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright
With the piled wood, round which the family
crowd.

There's something cheerful in that sort of light,
Even as a summer sky's without a cloud:
I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.

CXXXVI.

'Twas midnight-Donna Julia was in bed, Sleeping, most probably, when at her door

A rose a clatter right awake the dead,

If they had never been awoke before; And that they have been so, we all have read, And are to be so, at the least, once more: The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist First knocks were heard, then Madam-madamhist!

CXXXVII.

'For God's sake, Madam--Madam--hero's ny master,

With more than half the city at his backWas ever heard of such a curst disaster!

'Tis not my fault-I kept good watch-Alack! Do pray undo the bolt a little faster

They're on the stair just now, and in a crack Will all be here; perhaps he yet may flySurely the window's not so very high!

CXXXVIII.

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, With torches, friends, and servants in great number;

The major part of them had long been wived,

And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber Of any wicked woman, who contrived

By stealth her husband's temples to encumber: Examples of this kind are so contagious, Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous

CXXXIX.

I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion
Could enter into Don Alfonso's head;
But for a cavalier of his condition

It surely was exceedingly ill-bred,
Without a word of previous admonition,

To hold a levée round his lady's hed, And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd.

CXL.

Poor Donna Julia, starting as from sleep

(Mind-that I do not say-she had not slept), Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep; Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap,

As if she had just now from out them crept:

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. CXLI.

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid,

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid, Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two And therefore side by side were gently laid, Until the hours of absence should run through, And truant husband should return, and say, My dear, I was the first who came away.'

CXLII.

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried,
In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye
mean?

Has madness seized you? Would that I had died
Ere such a monster's victim I had been!
What may this midnight violence betide?
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen?

He search'd, they search'd, and rummag'd everywhere,

Closet and clothes-press, chest, and window-seat, And found much linen, lace, and several pair

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, With other articles of ladies fair,

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, And wounded several shutters and some boards. CXLIV.

Under the bed they search'd, and there they foundNo matter what-it was not that they sought; They open'd windows, gazing if the ground

Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought;

And then they stared each other's faces round:
'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought,
And seems to me almost a sort of blunder,
Of looking in the bed as well as under.

CXLVII.

'Is it for this I have disdain d to hold
The common privileges of my sex,
That I have chosen a confessor so old

And deaf, that any other it would vex?
And never once he has had cause to scold,
But found my very innocence perplex
So much, he always doubted I was married-
How sorry you will be when I've miscarried!
CXLVIII

'Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville?
Is it for this I scarce went anywhere,
Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel?
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were,

I favour'd none-nay, was almost uncivil?
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly,
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely ?*

Donna Julia has made a mistake. Count O'Reilly did not take Algiers, but Algiers very nearly took him: he and his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and not much credit, from before that city, in

the year 17-.

CXLIX.

CLII.

'If he comes here to take a deposition,
By all means let the gentleman proceed;
You've made the apartment in a fit condition:
There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need-
Let everything be noted with precision,

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd— But, as my maid's undrest, pray turn your spies out." 'Oh' sobb'd Antonia, 'I could tear their eyes out." CLIII.

'There is the closet, there the toilet, there

The antechamber-search them under, overi There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, The chimney-which would really hold a lover. I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care And make no further noise, till you discover The secret cavern of this lurking treasure; And when 'tis found, let me, too, have that pleasure. CLIV.

'And now, Hidalgo! now that you have thrown Doubt upon me, confusion over all,

Pray have the courtesy to make it known

Who is the man you search for? how d'ye call
Him? what's his lineage? let him but be shown:
I hope he's young and handsome-is he tall!
Tell me; and be assured that, since you stain
My honour thus, it shall not be in vain.
CLV.

'At least, perhaps, he is not sixty years,

At that age he would be too old for slaughter,
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears-
(Antonia let me have a glass of water)

I am asham'd of having shed these tears.
They are unworthy of my father's daughter;

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears,
Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears
Her streaming hair: the black curls strive, but fail,
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears
Its snow through all; her soft lips lie apart,
And louder than her breathing beats her heart.
CLIX.

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused;

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room,
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused
Her master and his myrmidons, of whom
Not one, except the attorney, was amused:
He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb,
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,
Knowing they must be settled by the laws.

CLX.

With prying snub-nose and small eyes, he stood,
Following Antonia's motions here and there,
With much suspicion in his attitude.

For reputation he had little care;
So that a suit or action were made good,
Small pity had he for the young and fair;
And ne'er believ'd in negatives, till these
Were proved by competent false witnesses.

CLXI.

But Don Alfonso stood, with downcast looks,
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure;
When, after searching in five hundred nooks,
And treating a young wife with so much rigour,
He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes,
Added to those his lady with such vigour
Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour,
Quick, thick, and heavy-as a thunder-shower.
CLXII.

At first he tried to hammer an excuse,

To which the sole reply was tears and sobs, And indications of hysterics, whose

Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs,

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose :-
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's;
He saw too, in perspective, her relations,
And then he tried to muster all his patience.

CLXIII.

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer,
But sage Antonia cut him short before
The anvil of his speech received the hammer,
With, Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more,
Or madam dies.'-Alfonso mutter'd, 'D-n her,'
But nothing else-the time of words was o'er ;
He cast a rueful look or two, and did,
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid.

CLXIV.

With him retired his posse comitatus,'

The attorney last, who linger'd near the door Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as

Antonia let him-not a little sore

At this most strange and unexplain'd 'hiatus In Don Alfonso s facts, which just now wore An awkward look. As he revolved the case, The door was fasten'd in his legal face.

CLXV.

No sooner was it bolted than-Oh shame!
Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and Oh womankind!
How can you do such things and keep your fame,
Unless this world, and t'other too, be blind?
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name;

But to proceed-for there is more behind:
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said,
Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed.

CLXVI.

He had been hid--I don't pretend to say
How, nor can I indeed describe the where-
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay,

No doubt, in little compass, round or square; But pity him I neither must nor may

His suffocation by that pretty pair:
'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.
CLXVII.

And, secondly, I pity not, because

He had no business to commit a sin, Forbid by heavenly, fined by human, lawsAt least 'twas rather early to begin; But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accompts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.

CLXVIII.

Of his position I can give no notion:

'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle,
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion,
Prescribed by way of blister, a young belle,
When old King David's blood grew dull in motion,
And that the medicine answerd very well;
Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied,
For David lived, but Juan nearly died.

CLXIX.
What's to be done? Alfonso will be back
The moment he has sent his fools away.